


The Guns of Brixton

by atomicsupervillainess



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: 1980's Punk-Rock AU, A little bit of fluff, Alternate Universe - Punk, Brixton riots, Drummer Fitz, F/M, Feelsy, Gen, Huntingbird for suuuuuuuure, JemmaLance Siblings!, Mack is sensible, Some Tripskye, Tatted up Fitz, Victoria Hand and Izzy, You shouldn't take dating advice from Huntingbird, a lil bit of angst, and a handful of smut, but funny?, smut in later chapters, some Philinda
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-10
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-03 19:26:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 93,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4112278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atomicsupervillainess/pseuds/atomicsupervillainess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the 1980's. In England, Margaret Thatcher is Prime Minister. The economy's tanking, and the unions are under attack. </p><p>The people are poor, the people are pissed, and the people are punk.</p><p>Well, not Jemma Simmons - at least, not openly. Into her second Ph.D, her education funded by her overbearing father, an executive at Roxxon Corporation, Jemma still plans to fight the system, just...quietly. Until her Ph.D is done. Not that her father knows that, of course.</p><p>Making it harder is her brother, Lance, and his newly-formed punk band. Worse still for Jemma's good girl plans? Lance's drummer, a Scottish drop-out who just happens to be the most brilliant engineer Jemma has ever met, and just the person she needs to help her get her prototype off the ground...just so long as her father doesn't find out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Clampdown

**Author's Note:**

  * For [memorizingthedigitsofpi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/memorizingthedigitsofpi/gifts).



> Firstly, I want to give a huuuuuuuuge shout-out to my lovely beta, memorizingthedigitsofpi, who not only helped beta this fic, but also inspired it, and continues to inspire it, by posting pictures of tatted up, punk-rock Fitz all over the tumblrs. 
> 
> She is to blame. That wonderful, horrible, no good person.
> 
> Also, I've tried my best to keep the story as accurate to 1980's UK as possible, but as I'm Canadian, and was born in the tail end of the decade, I may have made some mistakes, errors, or omissions! Please feel free to let me know in the comments, or to cut me some slack (that's cool too). 
> 
> Currently, this fic is rated pretty low, but I plan on getting pretty smutty in later chapters. 
> 
> Happy reading!

 

 

 

“Oof,” Skye mumbled, bumping into Jemma’s shoulder, “Jesus, why does it always have to be this crowded?”

Jemma just sighed and pulled at her silk blouse. Normally, she’d launch into a fascinating lecture on population demographics and the sociological and anthropological context of the London Tube (her American friend was really quite new to the U.K., after all, quite a babe in the woods), but the assaulting heat and thick, muggy air had exhausted even Jemma’s normally inexhaustible need to impart wisdom.

A trickle of sweat ran down her side, against the inside of her bra, and she shifted uncomfortably. Jemma rearranged her grip on the stuffed backpack she clutched to her front, and desperately wished she’d chosen a different outfit. The off-the shoulder silk was destined to stain an unsightly yellow under her arms, and possibly (she craned her head forward, looking down her front) just under her cleavage.

Jemma groaned loudly and shoved the over-stuffed bag into Skye’s arms. “Hold the ‘zines, won’t you Skye?” She shimmied backwards in the tiny space around her, trying to discretely reposition her bra so that her formerly pristine, white silk blouse might be salvaged from the disastrous weather and her own bodily functions. Accidentally, Jemma jostled a waiting person behind her. “Oh, oh my! I am so sorry!”

Skye jumped in, her voice sympathetic, “Boob sweat, man, totally not rad,” she pointed to Jemma’s chest, causing the older gentleman to look mildly affronted, and to take a large step to the left. It also caused Jemma’s shoulders to slump, her backpack strap sliding down comically to her elbow.

“I can’t take you anywhere.” Jemma huffed as the tube finally pulled into the station, its passengers disembarking and piling on in a turbid whirlpool of bodies.

Managing to find a spot, they pushed the over-stuffed backpack under their seats, as out of the way as possible, with Skye leaning forward between them occasionally to rescue a badly-bound photocopied booklet. “So this guy who’s storing the ‘zines, who is he again?” She asked, pulling the string taut and looking up at Jemma.

“Lance? Oh – he’s my brother,”

Skye quirked a disbelieving eyebrow, “And he’s actually going to keep your uber-socialist, radically political, pro-science, pro-academia, knowledge-for-all ‘zine secret from your totally conservative bourgeois daddy-dearest? Really?”

Jemma spluttered a laugh, “Yes. Definitely. They’re not exactly on good terms,”

“Why?”

“Well, Lance lives in _Brixton_ for one, and is a mouthy little shit for the other,” Jemma grinned. “He’s all for the proletariat. He _is_ the proletariat.”

As the tube wended farther from the university and closer to Brixton, Jemma’s high-held shoulders noticeably relaxed. She slumped into the seat back, and stretched. “Lance is my half-brother, so we didn’t exactly grow up together, but we’re still quite close. He was lucky enough to escape the _‘Harcourt V. Simmons Life-Planning Survey Course: Spanning from Birth Through the Rest of Your Life’_. Luckily Fiona, Lance’s mother, has always been a free spirit – she sort of instilled that wildness in my brother too, so even if Father _had_ taken a vested interest in Lance’s life, I think he’d have always managed to make his own way.”

“Sounds like you’re leaving the ‘unlike me’ part unsaid there,” Skye’s fingers curled into quotes, her mouth quirking into an understanding smile.

Jemma sighed, her features conflicted. “It’s just becoming more and more clear as I progress in my studies that Father’s help with tuition isn’t exactly just…help. It just seems, with Sunil, with the constant dinners and the lab tours, more of, well, of an exchange of services? That’s horrid to say about one’s own father, isn’t it?”

“Not really. He’s definitely giving you the hard-sell for Roxxon. And he’s so high up in the executive chain, it makes sense that he wants to leave a legacy,” Skye shrugged.

“Do you ever feel that way with your father?”

“Not really. I mean, I’ve always looked up to my Dad, you know? I was abandoned as a kid – I went through so many foster homes... And then Phil and Melinda found me, and I dunno…I’ve just always been really grateful, and Phil and Melinda…They’re everything I want to be. I see what they do, and I think it’s important, it’s essential, it’s good work. So I’m okay with following in their footsteps. I want to.” Skye stretched, kicking her combat-boot clad feet over Jemma’s thighs, “They never forced me though. It was all my own decision.”

“Your family is such a breath of fresh air. Phil and Melinda are just so liberal and accepting, I almost wish they could talk to Father, loosen him up a bit.” Jemma fiddled with Skye’s laces. “Speaking of Phil and Melinda, why can’t we keep the Zines at your flat again?”

“Because I promised my Dad I’d focus on school and not on dismantling corrupt systems and institutions until I had a degree in my hand,” Skye scrunched her nose and looked down. “I don’t want to disappoint him.”

“Me neither.”

“But it’s different with Harcourt, you know? It’s like it’s not about you. It’s about his little empire or whatever,”

“No, no, Skye, it’s not like that – it’s a wonderful opportunity for science! I’m on my way to two Ph.D’s – I’ve got a million questions and every answer just breeds more of them. Father simply wants me to be able to pursue the path I’m interested in. You know my truest loyalties are to science, and honestly, at this point, Roxxon simply has more resources than the universities. Of course I’m not committed to Roxxon, and their business dealings are a mite dodgy, and working under my father’s direction would be stifling, but – the _resources_...”

Skye sighed deeply. The argument wasn’t new, and was guaranteed to leave them both frustrated. So she changed the subject. “So tell me about Lance. I don’t know anything about him,”

Jemma’s face lit up as she tried to hide a little smile, rolling her eyes to cover up the worshipful glint that shone in them, “Oh, _Lance_. Where to begin? He thinks he’s the greatest thing in the world – god’s gift to women, to the entirety of the British empire, and to the Queen herself,” she pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “Lance is a royal pain in my arse half the time, but…to be honest, he’s the best thing in my life, outside of science.”

“Hey!” Skye teasingly kicked Jemma’s thigh, making the other girl guffaw in surprise.

“- and you, obviously!” Jemma chuckled, and continued, “He’s my refuge, I suppose. That sounds silly, doesn’t it? He’s the only one in my family who really knows me, and who really supports me…I think sometimes he’s the only one who really cares about what I want.”

Skye smiled warmly. “He sounds like a great guy. I think I can trust him with my ‘zines.”

* * *

 

Jemma gripped the door-handle tight with both hands and braced her shoulder against the door-jamb. With a deep breath and a forceful, upward pull, she managed to leverage the door up enough to open with a wide swing, banging against the accordion closet door in the tiny hallway beyond.

“Tah-dah!” Jemma sing-songed, grinning wide and throwing her arms open, gesturing like Vanna White displaying a prize. Instead, her arms displayed a cramped flat, filled with thrifted furniture and littered with underpants and stale-smelling t-shirts. “Come on, come on, let me take your rucksack and I’ll give you the tour!” Jemma insisted, setting Skye’s baggage down in the overflowing closet.

“It’s a bit of a mess right now,” Jemma apologized, gathering up the empty beer cans strewn on the coffee table, the socks that lay in a tumble by the arm-chair, “But when it’s tidy is actually quite a cozy little place. I helped carry that dresser _all the way_ from the dumpster!”

As she puttered about, gathering scattered clothing and odds and ends, she directed Skye to other objects of sentimental value. “This is my sofa – Lance got it from Mrs. Triplett after they bought a new one about six years ago, because I was finally allowed to spend the night, and he needed some place to put me. It’s older than Methuselah, but I swear it’s the comfiest thing,” She waved Skye towards the mess of cushions, “Try it! I promise you won’t be disappointed!”

Skye sat experimentally, and pushed down with her hands. “Definitely comfy,” She agreed, her small smile growing exponentially larger as she watched Jemma perk up in the space, so familiar and so comfortable, tossing clothes into the bedroom, puffing pillows, tossing old take-away boxes into a loose garbage bag, before coming back to the dresser to rummage through.

“Ah-ha!” She announced, pulling out a baggy sex-pistols t-shirt, hand spray-painted. “I knew he’d give it to me,” She said, stripping down to her bra with a relieved sigh. She tugged the shirt over her head, tying a loose knot at her side, and shucked the long skirt she wore in favour of a pair of acid-wash cutoff shorts.

“Yeah-hah! _Simmons!_ Get down wit’ch’ur bad self!” Skye exclaimed, pumping her fist at the impromptu strip show, “Ow-ow! Who knew you were a secret bad girl?”

Jemma’s mouth dropped into an aghast ‘O’. “Oh, oh my – do you think it’s…a bit, too, you know, _tarty_?”

Skye shook her head rapidly, “No way! It’s like, ninety degrees in the shade! And it’s just – I didn’t think you were into Punk-rock,”

Jemma quickly knotted her hair on top of her head and jumped onto the sofa beside Skye. “I’m not, really. But Lance is, and it’s such a breezy shirt, and he’s worn it so much and washed it so often it’s all soft and cool. I could hardly wear anything like this back in the Kensington house.”

Skye snorted, “Yeah, your dad would seriously flip. Your boobs say sex. Literally.”

Suddenly the door banged shut, and a male voice shouted, “Who’s boobs say sex?”

“Mine,” Jemma called out, leaning towards the tiny front hall where an angular male face poked around the corner.

“Why you absolute _slag_ ,” Lance teased.

“Skye, please meet the magnanimous man-slut of Lambeth, my brother, Lance Hunter,”

Lance waved as he strode past. Pulling open the refrigerator door, he countered, “I prefer the bitchin’ boy-toy of Brixton, personally. But whatever.”

As he popped the cap on a Red Stripe, he gestured towards Jemma’s t-shirt. “It’s only for borrowing, eh? I don’t want it to suddenly disappear somehow in the wash back at Harcourt’s.” He took a large swig, “I made it myself. Got the spray-paint and everything.” He turned back to the open fridge, and then looked back at Jemma. “Have you eaten yet, Li’l?” He leaned on the door, “All we’ve got is beer and sriracha.”

Jemma waved him off from where she sat cross-legged on the sofa. “No, but I’m not hungry. You don’t have to worry.”

“And yet I do – have you seen your teeny-weak little chicken wings?”

Jemma forced out an aggrieved sigh and clawed through her purse. She shoved a small wad of bills into Skye’s hand. “Would you be an absolute dear and pop ‘round to the curry shop so my worry-wart big brother is saved from the embolism he’s likely to have if I don’t eat something under his supervision?”

Skye just giggled, wagging a finger between the two of them. “This – this is adorable. I want siblings. Think I can talk Phil and Melinda into it?” She scrambled up from the couch. “I just really want to start pinching cheeks – you’re both so British and cute. God, I want a brother!”

“You can have mine,” Jemma deadpanned.

“Aye-aye!” Lance threw an offended bottle-cap, winging it off Jemma’s eyebrow.

“Careful!” She cried, rubbing where it had bounced off her.

“I’ll be back in a half-hour,” Skye called, the door slamming quickly behind her.

Lance slumped into the couch, throwing his feet haphazardly onto the coffee table. “She seems nice…”

“Lance, _no_.”

“Why not? I’ve got two relatively steady jobs, a great smile, a six-pack that just won’t quit, and I am a surprisingly gentle lo-“

Jemma shoved her fingers in her ears and cringed. “I don’t care about your arguments!” She said, rather loudly. “Skye’s off-limits!”

She unplugged her ears and continued, “Especially when you’re still completely in love with Bobbi.”

“I am not,”

“You were snogging her two weeks ago like it was going out of style, right in the hallway by the toilets during quiz night at the pub.”

“That was two weeks ago. We’re broken up again.” He sighed, leaning back and sinking into the deep cushions. “And in two weeks, you’ll be back together.”

“We won’t. It’s done this time. Really done. She’s shipping out, going back to America, apparently. Some stupid General named Talbot or something wants her stateside. I told her to quit, to stay here, and she refused. Apparently her military career is more important than me.”

“Well obviously.” Jemma rolled her eyes and stole his beer, taking a large gulp.

“You’re my sister, you’re supposed to be on my side.” He swiped the beer back, “Even if you do like her better,”

“I could never like her better than you! I resent that implication! But Bobbi – she’s amazing! She’s strong-minded and brilliant, and she doesn’t let a man define her life! I just look up to her. But I love you. And so does she. It’ll work itself out between you two – always does.”

Lance rubbed his eyes hard and took a deep, steadying breath, trying to maintain his pretense of composure. “Speaking of men defining the lives of women, how is dear old dad these days? Still trying to chain you to Roxxon and live your life for you?”

Jemma just rolled her eyes.

“No, but truly Li’l, has he backed off at all?”

Jemma shrugged. “He’s just trying to help – to protect me.”

“You’re a big girl – you can protect yourself. Always could. Which is why I can’t believe you’re still spouting party-line when your politics and your views are so different from his. You’re even more radically left-wing than I am!” Lance grabbed an old edition of Jemma and Skye’s ‘zine from the coffee table, where it’d been serving as a coaster, “And you’re at least ten times smarter, so why you think you have to kow-tow to that absolute knob-head is beyond me.”

Jemma held up her hands imploringly, “It’s just two more semesters, and I’m done – I just can’t afford tuition on my own – not the way it’s spiked since Thatcher got into office! Its not that I’m kow-towing, I’ve just weighed my options, and the most _logical_ thing to do is keep quiet and fly under the radar for another year.”

“You mean just pretend to be a completely different person with a completely different set of ideals, paraded around his cigar-smoking cronies as the next protégé of Roxxon, pretending the sun shines out of his arse?”

“That is _hardly_ –“

“That is _exactly_ what you’re doing.”

“You’re an arsehole.”

“And yet you still keep coming here. And every time you get in, you change out of your stuffy clothes into my old hand-me downs, and you actually relax. I’m not going to lecture you anymore,”

“- Thank heavens for that,” Jemma griped, pushing herself off the sofa and hauling open the fridge door with a rattle.

“Jesus Christ, Jemma! Just think about it, alright? I don’t want you to wake up in your middling years with two kids being raised by a nanny, wandering around the business district with shoulder-pads up to your eyeballs and a husband you can’t stand all because you didn’t want to be a disappointment to your father, only to wind up a disappointment to yourself.”

“…Are we done?” She asked, cracking a beer.

“…Yeah,” Lance said with a sigh.

“We’re done,” He slumped further into the couch, and muttered under his breath, “ _Stubborn cow_.”

“Wayward prick. I heard that.”

“I meant you to,” He shot.

“Good,” She shot back, taking a long draught of her beer.

She stared at the back of his head thoughtfully for a moment. “…I love you very much.”

“I love you too, Li’l.”

“You’re still a wanker.”

“Actually, by the end of next week, I plan on being a wanker no longer.”

Jemma snorted into her beer, “Oh really? What do you plan on being instead?”

“A punk-rock _sex god_.”

Jemma spluttered around the mouth of the bottle, wiping her face as the door slammed open and shut in rapid succession.

“I got chow!” Skye called.

“A punk-rock sex god. _Alright_. You can barely string four chords together, but alright.”

“Joe Strummer says that’s all you need!” Lance cried as he hopped off the couch to grab the take-away boxes from Skye. “And Trip’s going to be the bassist, and I’ve even recruited Mack’s shop-boy from the garage to be our drummer!”

He tore off a strip of na’an bread and stuffed it into his mouth, mumbling around it, “And I think after this very productive conversation,” He swallowed, “That I’ve just come up with the title of our first song – Jemma’s Dilemma.”

Skye nodded from where she sat on the floor, spoon dipping into the aloo gobi, “I like it.”

He tilted his head, regarding her, “Yeah. Got a good ring to it, I think.”

Jemma threw her hands up. “You’re not supposed to encourage him Skye! You’re my friend!”

Skye grinned and shovelled a cauliflower floret into her mouth. When she swallowed, she asked, “So what’s your band name?”

“The Tits! or Fateful Loins - we haven’t quite decided yet.”

“ _Oh good lord_ ,” Jemma buried her face in her hands.

The evening stretched on into night. The sound of sirens began blaring at regular intervals and the sounds of shouting clusters of people drifted to the high-up flat.

“I should really get going. I’ve got an early poli-sci class tomorrow.” Skye said, comfortably ensconced in the arm-chair as Lance switched out the record in the player to an older Clash album.

“Oh right,” Jemma began, “We’ll walk you to the train. It’s a bit dodgy out there,”

Lance stuck his head out the window, craning down to see the streets below. Shadowed clumps of people milled about, radiating an ambivalent aggression as cops with night-sticks prowled. “Your Dad’s got a car, right? Best use the phone and call him. It’s looking a bit volatile below.”

When Skye’s dad showed up, he tripped into the tiny foyer from the hallway, his foot catching on the door-jamb.

“Skye,” Her dad announced patiently, “I’m here. Let’s get going.”

He straightened his tie and nodded at Jemma, “Miss Simmons, a pleasure as always,”

“Likewise, Mr. Coulson,” Jemma beamed up at him.

“Oh!” She realized suddenly, darting to her feet and pulling Lance from the kitchen. “This is my big brother Lance! Lance, this is Skye’s father, Phil Coulson,”

Lance stuck out his hand to shake. “So you’re who I have to thank for ensuring my daughter got home safe tonight,” Coulson clasped Lance’s hand in both of his, and looked the younger man over, “Let me know if you ever need a job – I could talk to a few people for you.”

Lance smiled crookedly, “Thanks but no thanks, G-man. I’ve got a promising career as a punk-rock sex god to get underway. No time to work for the Man, I’m afraid,”

Coulson reiterated, “Well, if anything changes, give me a call. It’s a standing offer.”

When they left, the flat fell silent and felt emptied out, the harsh words of earlier escaping in the solitude of the darkened night. Lance went around shutting off lamps and turning off the record player as Jemma tossed the take-away boxes in the bin. It was a well-orchestrated night-time routine, perfected over many years of shared lives, and they lived it quietly, comfortably. Jemma handed Lance his toothbrush, and he tossed her an extra pillow and blanket to keep off the chill. Before he closed the door to his bedroom, he wound a familiar arm around her shoulder, and drew her into a rough hug.

“Night Li’l,” he said.

“Night Big.” She answered, standing on her tip-toes to kiss his cheek.

* * *

 


	2. I Wanna Be Sedated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jemma's two worlds begin to collide when she introduces Lance's friend Trip to Skye. Later that evening, she finds herself caught in the clutches of a business dinner with a handful of Roxxon executives. After one too many martinis - what will Jemma do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you that were dying for more sibling dynamics, more Skye, and the emergence of Trip - This one's for you! Also featuring in this chapter are a few old villains that we know and love, and Jemma's Mom. 
> 
> This chapter has a lot of historical context weaved throughout, and much of it has to do with the racial and income/class-based tensions that made Brixton a pretty volatile area of London at the time. I tried to be sensitive to the subject matter, while also not sweeping it under the rug. But as I've said before, I've not lived these experiences, nor have I ever lived in London itself, so I may not be portraying things as accurately as possible. Please, if you notice any errors, omissions, or anything distinctly problematic in the portrayal of these events, let me know or feel free to cut me some slack (that's cool too!).

 

* * *

 

 

The corner of Jemma’s mouth pulled into a sleepy smile. The tickling heat of the sun lapped at her face like an eager puppy, awakening her early for the day. Drawing her arms up against her neck, she lengthened her torso and arched her back, her body extending in a feline stretch, right down to her toes.

 

“‘Bout time you woke up, lazy-bones,” Lance grumbled, stuffing his wallet into the back pocket of his tight, well-worn jeans. The corner of the leather poked through a fraying hole, and absently, Jemma noted that she’d have to sew on another patch. She’d see what she could find at the record-shop on the way to the university that morning.

 

Lance shoved his shoes on, jogged over to the sofa, and ruffled her hair fondly. “I’ve got early deliveries, or I’d drag you down to the pub kitchen and steal some eggs for breakfast.”

 

“So what you’re saying is that you need me to buy you some groceries?” Jemma pushed his hand away from her head.

 

“No, what I’m saying is that I need you to buy _us_ some groceries. You and me. You eat here often enough. Speaking of which - should I expect to see you tonight, Li’l?” Lance asked, shrugging into a patched black denim vest.

 

Jemma crossed her legs and shook her head, her movements comically large in their listlessness, making her appear somehow younger, more childlike. “Not tonight. Mum made me promise. Don’t know why.”

 

A key jangled in the lock, and a moment later, Trip walked in with a Jamaican flag on his t-shirt and a broad smile on his face. “Come on, girl,” he shook his head at Jemma, slinging a thumb through his studded belt. “I thought you were an early riser.”

 

Jemma narrowed her eyes and shot a quick glance at the clock. It was 5:30 AM. “What’s going on? You don’t need Trip for deliveries…”

 

Lance put an affronted hand to his chest, “Going on? _Going on_? Why, I am shocked and appalled that you would accuse me of -”

 

“There were a couple people shot last night. Cops were arresting a whole lot of people. A lot of black folks.” Trip acknowledged. “Safety in numbers?” He quirked an eyebrow and smiled, honey-slow.

 

“Fucking Thatcher,” Lance grumbled.

 

“it’s those SUS laws. They’re a match, and Brixton’s a powder-keg.” Jemma agreed, tossing aside blankets as she grabbed an armful of clothes and made her way to the toilet. She stuck her toothbrush into her mouth and continued, “Everyone we know alright?”

 

Trip shrugged, “Depends on how you classify ‘alright’. Idaho’s got a black eye, Izzy’s arrested.”

 

Lance’s head shot up.

 

Trip chuckled, “Yeah. This cop, he tried to stop and frisk Mack. It would have been fine, you know Mack - gentle giant - but he was with Izzy and Idaho. They were walking home after closing up the pub. Izz got offended on Mack’s behalf, and Idaho got uppity.”

 

Lance scrubbed his hands down his face, “Next thing you know, Izz is in custody, and Idaho’s the victim of police brutality,”

 

“-But at least they forgot about Mack, in the middle of all of it?” Jemma inquired, quickly turning the shower on and poking her head around the door jamb.

 

“Yeah.” Trip shrugged again. “So I’m off to the station to post bail for Izzy before the pub deliveries arrive. So when Lance called - “

 

In the foyer, Lance was gesticulating maniacally.

 

“ _I mean_ , when I found out my favourite uptown girl was slumming it, I thought it was a perfect opportunity.” He smiled that thousand-watt smile again, and Jemma shook her head ruefully.

 

“You’re like the male version of those disney princesses, you know? I’d believe that cartoon birds dressed you in the mornings. If it weren’t for that smile and your incredibly symmetrical features, I don’t think I could forgive either of you for being so bloody over-protective!” She called out, hopping under the spray of the shower.

 

“Come on, girl!” Trip called, “I need you to protect me!”

 

“I’m off then. Trip’ll see you to school. And remember, if you’re going to start an uprising of the poor and unwashed, don’t do it without me!” The door slammed, and Lance was gone.

 

Jemma showered quickly. Her morning routine was short but efficient, and when she locked the door of the apartment, it was only quarter-past six. Plenty of time to meet Skye at their usual spot, and grab a cuppa before her early chemical kinetics lab.

 

She hurried Trip along the council flats, taking care for any police lurking about after the previous night’s violence.

 

“What in the heck are you doing, Simmons?” Trip asked, quirking an amused brow.

 

“Well, if you must know, I take my responsibilities quite seriously. As they now include you not having your civil rights impinged upon by a law imposed with extreme racial prejudice, designed to further oppress the downtrodden in an already economically hard-hit community, I am keeping an eye out for police.”

 

She craned her head around an alley-way. “I _am_ trying to be inconspicuous about it,” she admitted nervously.

 

Trip chuckled good naturedly. “Girl, you had better never decide to be a spy, that’s all I’m saying,”

 

Jemma sighed resignedly as they walked on in companionable silence.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Once the pair queued out of the train car onto the platform nearest the university, Jemma gave voice to a question that had been plaguing her since the previous night. “The Tits, though? _Really?_ I mean, Fateful Loins is, of course, worse, but - The Tits? I don’t know whether to be more dismayed that you actually joined Lance’s band, or that you actively allowed it to be named The Tits.”

 

Trip held up his hands defensively, “Hey, I petitioned for us to be The Noise and the Punk, but I was overruled.”

 

“Ugh.” Jemma shuddered, “So the drummer’s a lech too then?”

 

Trip laughed loudly, “Yeah, not exactly how I would describe Fitz.”

 

Jemma shot a confused look his way before picking through the cafe crowd for Skye’s distinctive hair - Bleached within an inch of it’s life, dark roots, topped off with a headband bow. Needless to say, Madonna was a heavy influence on her friend’s style. She waved at Skye, and then gestured politely for Trip to get in line as Skye trundled forward, looking tired and clutching her coffee to her mouth like it was her one true love.

 

She swept her gaze along Trip’s muscular form as he ordered, pausing reverentially along his biceps and the breadth of his shoulders, and whispered to Jemma, _“That’s just mean, first thing in the morning. Why’s he gotta be so pretty?”_

 

Jemma snorted as she pressed Trip’s wallet back into his hand - “It’s my treat. I suppose I owe you for seeing me to school safely. After all, Lance put you up to it. He’s such a mother hen,” She clucked, passing a few pound notes over the counter.

 

“Trip,” Jemma waved at Skye (who had taken the two seconds of time afforded by their exchange at the counter to brush away her bleeding eyeliner and touch up her lipstick), “This is Skye, my friend from computer sciences,”

 

“It’s the wave of the future,” Skye said, nonchalantly leaning on the counter, looking up at Trip through sultry lashes. Jemma marveled at the ease with which she shifted gears from exhausted university student to sex kitten.

 

“Wave of the future, I like that. Kinda like _the Rising Tide_.” He grabbed his order as it was slid across the counter. “I dig that ‘zine you girls put out. Smart girls, man, that’s where it’s at.”

 

Skye allowed a sexy smile to blossom. “Maybe if you’re lucky, I’ll let you buy me a drink and pick my brain sometime.”

 

Truly, Jemma thought, watching Skye angle herself ever so slightly and arch her back, it was like watching a master at work. She patted at her rather limp braid, and wondered, absently, as she watched their flirtation, if maybe it wasn’t time to change her look?

 

“Maybe, Skye, maybe,” Trip flirted, giving her an elevator look before stooping to peck Jemma on the cheek.

 

“Bye Trip,” she said. “Say hi to Izzy for me.”

 

“Bye yourself, gorgeous.”

 

Jemma waved a dismissive hand. “Run along, now - Izzy’s bail isn’t going to post itself,” she tittered dorkily.

 

As soon as he was out of earshot, Skye grabbed at Jemma’s forearm, “One, who is _that_? Two, is there anything going on between you? And if not, _why not_? And also, three - if not, can there be something going on between him and me?”

 

Jemma snorted again, this time into her tea, and allowed herself to be dragged bodily to their usual table.

 

She held up three fingers, “One, that’s Trip - he’s a lovely fellow. His grandmother’s _darling_ \- she’s the one that gave us the sofa.” She folded one finger down, “Two, there is nothing going on between us. I mean, objectively, he’s my type - low body fat percentage, symmetrical features, plus, he’s tall, and has a decent IQ, but he’s just not… _interesting_? I guess? He’s rather predictable. Nor is he one for gossip. Plus, he’s Lance’s friend, so that’s a bit dodgy all on it’s own.”

 

Jemma folded down another finger, “And three -you have my blessing. In fact, I’m a bit in awe of your technique. Why, if this were the animal kingdom, you’d have been a dead-ringer for _pavo cristatus_ \- I half-expected plumage,” she teased.

 

“ _Shut up_ ,” Skye blushed, kicking her lightly under the table.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It had been a long day for Jemma. After coffee with Skye, she hurriedly rushed to the lab to check her samples, and then she’d had to leg it to the other side of campus to teach a molecular biology class, half out of breath and hair full of fly-aways.

 

Lunch was only a thing of dreams; her meeting with her thesis advisors over her proposed dendrotoxin compound took far longer than she had initially expected (and Dr. Christobal was well-known to run at the mouth); and then she’d lost track of time trying to isolate the peptides.

 

Needless to say, when she finally stepped through the door of the Kensington house, she was altogether unsurprised to see her father sitting in the stiff mahogany chair. It was antique and meant for show rather than use, being high-backed and uncomfortable, but there he was: Harcourt V. Simmons, disgruntled, arms crossed over his chest, with his suit wrinkling around him in the expansive foyer.

 

His shiny shoe tapped at the Italian tile.

 

“Hello father. I’ve made a rather fascinating discovery today!” Jemma said brightly, plastering on a wide smile and feigning innocence.

 

Harcourt said nothing. He simply glanced at his watch, tapping at the glass-face. He stood, tugged on the hem of his suit jacket, harumphed, and began to walk away from her without a word.

 

As soon as he was out of earshot, Jemma groaned under her breath and clenched her fists.

 

“Jemma, my dear, is that you?”

 

“Yes mum!” Jemma shouted up to the second floor.

 

There was a quick shuffle of heels on carpet. “Jemma, _ladies_ do not shout. Now, come along. I’ve picked out some rather pretty dresses for you to wear tonight. I’m sure Sunil will find them all _very_ enticing, darling,”

 

Jemma cringed inwardly, but followed her mother up towards her room.

 

In the end, they settled on a black, off-the-shoulder velvet number ( _“Very regal, oh yes. Very Princess Di.”_ ). The boning pinched the skin at her sides, the velvet made her uncomfortably warm, and she still wasn’t sure exactly what the occasion was.

 

“Yes, dinner. And I’m sure we’ll eat it when the time comes, but -”

 

“Not just _any_ old dinner, darling - Ian Quinn from Roxxon’s American subsidiary, Cybertek, will be here, along with a few others from the American office - a Mr.John Garrett and his protege. Apparently he goes to school here but has been interning for _yonks_ , just _yonks_! Absolute _ages_ , darling… And Sunil will be here, of course,” her mother gave her an insinuating wink.

 

“Mum, I do wish you and father would stop pushing us together, so,” Jemm grumbled, pulling at her bra and re-arranging her breasts so she was only showing a modest amount of cleavage.

 

“ _Tosh._ I don’t know what you’re suggesting. Sunil is a fine young man of upstanding character, but we’d _hardly_ push you together if that wasn’t what you wanted, Jemma darling.” Her mother’s eyebrows creased together with concern, “You do _like_ Sunil, don’t you?”

 

“Oh, I suppose he’s fine. He’s just, well, a _bit_ boring. And a bit overbearing - don’t you think? _Very_ concerned with health and safety. Always talking about ‘compliance’. I mean honestly, it’s all well and good, but there’s more to life than rewards for compliance, I should think,” Jemma patted at her hair in the mirror, and attempted a laugh. She tried to make her comment seem a bit more jocular, a bit less honest. She caught her mother’s amber eyes in the mirror and knew she wasn’t buying the ruse.

 

Her mother’s shoulders visibly fell. It looked as if she’d deflated, like a balloon the day after a party.

 

“It’s just - always business talk!” Jemma added awkwardly, her volume increasing on the end, as if the louder she said it, the more believable it was.

 

Her mother just tilted her head, her perfectly-winged bob hair-sprayed in place as she smiled a small commiserating smile, and squeezed her daughter’s shoulders. “I wish you’d said something. I thought you enjoyed this sort of thing - the high-powered world of R&D, science and business, making money and taking charge and all that.”

 

“It’s always business though, mum. Never science.”

 

“Sunil talks science,” her mother offered, draping a strand of pearls around Jemma’s long throat.

 

“Sunil talks _psychology_ , not science - well, not hard science.” Jemma cringed. “He’s in _HR_ for heaven's sake,” she scoffed.

 

“Oh, darling,” Her mother tittered, pushing her out the door, “I’m afraid we’ve rather turned you into a snob.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Hunting is all about survival. It’s all about being a predator, sighting your prey, and running it down,” John Garrett’s protege, Grant Ward, was telling Jemma - or rather, Sunil, who was standing a bit too close behind her, switching his drink to his other hand, so it could rest on the sideboard as he leaned further into her personal space.

 

“Something tells me you know a little something about being a predator, Bakshi. Finding your prey,” Ward’s eyes glanced briefly at Jemma, drifting down to where her hip pressed against the sideboard, Sunil’s hand creeping incrementally closer. Ward chuckled in his throat, and tipped his beer to his lips, “You know, in business. The two are surprisingly similar.”

 

Nodding politely into her second martini, Jemma’s eyes slid to her mother, whose laughter clinked like the ice-cubes in her sloe gin fizz. Her head was tilted to the side, her hand patting fondly at her husband’s arm.

 

“Vera tells that story far better than I do. I’m afraid you’ve gotten the second rate version,” Harcourt admitted, his eyes soft as they found Vera’s.

 

“Oh, hardly.” Her knowing smile fell upon the other men in the circle, “As if Harcourt Simmons could _possibly_ do something second rate.” They all laughed in uproarious agreement.

 

Jemma rolled her eyes at the theatrics of it all and drained the rest of the alcohol in her glass. Her eyes searched the room until she found who she was searching for, and she held her glass aloft for a refill.

 

Trudi, the maid, smiled sympathetically and began bustling about the drinks cart. Jemma mouthed a thank-you, before turning back to the deadeningly boring conversation at hand. She tilted her head and widened her eyes in an effort to appear interested. It hardly mattered, however. She was merely set dressing in the conversation. Or so she thought, until a warm, masculine hand tentatively pressed into her hip, the thumb reaching to caress her.

 

“- If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen,” Jemma blurted, backing away and gesturing over her shoulder with her thumb in a wide flail. “I - um, I uh... believe they’re talking about... Kary Mullis! Over there - _fascinating stuff,_ really. And, um I, I _must_ , I _really_ must tell my father about the running correspondence we’ve had about the polymerase chain reaction technique!” Her volume hit such a peak on the last syllable, it was enough to capture the attention of the whole party. She spun on her heel, narrowly avoiding the large, three-olive martini Trudi proffered.

 

Jemma sighed, “Ta, Trudi.” She dropped her voice to a whisper, so only the maid would hear, “ _You’re a lifesaver_.”

 

“ _Father!_ Have I told you about that fascinating polymerase chain reaction technique Kary perfected? I swear, there is a Nobel Prize in _that_!” Jemma trundled on, her voice overly jolly.

 

Harcourt’s eyebrow quirked, and his mouth became tiny in a disapproving sort of confusion.

 

“Jemma, darling, be a pet and run and tell Cook we’re ready to move to the dining room?” Vera asked, sweeping her daughter bodily out of the sitting room.

 

“That girl of yours, she sure is somethin’ else,” Garrett said.

 

“Both smart and beautiful,” Ian Quinn added, before dropping to whisper to Garrett, “ _Luckily. That is the most awkward woman I’ve ever seen._ ”

 

“Like lookin’ at a day-old calf trying to find it’s legs.” Garrett admitted when Harcourt had exited their circle to gather the young men into the dining room.

 

A glass of wine, a side salad, a serving of chicken marsala, half a serving of pilaf ( _“You really should watch your figure more carefully, Jemma. At the lab at all hours, most of your meals from vending machines! The university should try to improve it’s health measures, at least.” - “They haven’t the funding, Father. And I should think they’d spend what little they have to pay the dwindling Arts faculty.”_ ), and a serving of roasted mixed vegetables later (she had forgone the cheesecake dessert after another disapproving glance from her father), Jemma laid her napkin on the table, excusing herself to go to the loo.

 

She was just tipsy enough to slip off her heels and take the steps up to her room two at a time. She had barely enough inhibitions left to stop herself from cackling maniacally as she pushed open her large bedroom window and tugged on a pair of running shoes.

 

“...Miss,” Trudi’s timid voice sounded from the door.

 

Jemma sat on the window casement, tying her laces. Without looking up, she asked, “Can you cover for me, please Trudi? Just say I’ve gone to bed with a headache and can’t possibly come down…”

 

“It would be quite a difficult thing to explain tomorrow morning, though, wouldn’t it?” Her mother’s voice was wry and amused, “Oh, _Jemma_.”

 

“Mum!” Jemma sat up, startled, banging her head on the window pane.

 

“I suppose that’s God’s way of punishing you for your misbehaviour.”

 

“I can...I can explain,” Jemma began.

 

Vera waved her off, unconcerned. “Go, on. I know. I’ll tell your father your brother was in some sort of bind, and you rushed off to help him.”

 

Vera came closer, arms outstretched as she approached, a resigned smile on her face as she pulled her daughter into a tight hug. “You really should have told me how much you hated it.” She patted her daughter’s hair and kissed her soundly on the top of her head. “Now go on, Wild Girl. Be free! Give your scoundrel brother a hug from me, as well.”

 

Jemma grinned as she kissed her mother’s cheek and then crawled out the window. “G’night Mum. I love you.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Lance’s door, for once, opened smoothly, the oiled hinges sweeping soundlessly into the darkened foyer. Jemma’s bare shoulders released with a long exhale, and she suddenly felt unaccountably tired.

 

It had been an exhausting evening. She dropped her purse on top of scattered runners and toed off her shoes. She’d been treated as a particularly interesting show dog for half the night, mildly groped for a third of it, and had spent the last hour laughed at, discretely, on transit. Though, even she had to admit, the fluorescent running shoes she wore did not quite match the expensive dress she was rapidly climbing out of.

 

She spilled out of the velvet, hopping a little as she tripped on the hem, and swore in a loud whisper. With a relieved snap, she threw off her bra, and shimmied out of her pantyhose, managing, this time, to stay upright as she pulled it down from her heels.

 

Naked save for her tiny, black lacy panties, she grabbed a Clash t-shirt from her drawer and strode over to the fridge. The beer clattered a little chime of welcome from the door as she hauled it open. There was still nothing in it but beer and sriracha. However, the cool air felt nice on her skin, filmy with sweat from that horrid dress. She stood there like that, her head lolling back, for another moment or two, just relaxing, before she pulled on her shirt, and grabbed a glass of cold water.

 

Quietly, she proceeded to tidy up: stacking dishes and laying them in the sink, wiping counters, and finally, straightening the rug, until tiredness fair overwhelmed her.

 

Jemma took one last long gulp of water, set her cup down, and made her way to her favourite place in the world. She felt for a moment, staring at the back of it, quite like an explorer. Or maybe a king. Someone who had struck their flag into the earth and claimed everything in the vicinity as their own - as far as the eye could see.

 

She ran the pads of her fingers lovingly against the upholstery seam as she came around the other side. That sofa, unlike the bed she slept in the Kensington house, unlike her love-life, or even her future, was hers, and hers alone. Her sanctuary. That sofa, with it’s lumpy cushions, its piles of laundry and haphazardly thrown blankets, was hers.

 

She yawned, stretching her arms high overhead, and dragged her palms along her forearms. Her back arched and her toes pushed up high onto their tips. That sofa, with the shoes sticking out the end of the blankets, with all its imperfections, was hers.

 

She smiled, honey sweet and molasses slow, and flopped down on top of it.

 

She very quickly realized that what she had assumed were piles of laundry and lumpy cushions festooned under a blanket weren’t that at all.

 

When the startled hands slapped at her, and a wildly flailing knee connected with her gut, doubling her over in breathless pain, she came to the conclusion that the piles-of-laundry-and-lumpy-cushion-shaped thing was, in fact, a person.

She, imperious in her pain and bewilderment, tore the blanket from the newly awoke person. He swore fast and fluently in a sleepily thick Glaswegian burr, snatching his covers back in an instant.

His mohawk had fallen pathetically into his shadowed face. At that moment, she gathered that the person was actually a man. A handsome one - if the way the shadows fell against the smooth planes of his face, the angles of his cheekbones, and the bob of his adam’s apple were anything to go by.  And there she was, standing in front of him in nothing but her lacy underthings and Lance’s old Clash t-shirt, with the sleeves cut out.

That was when she swore.

 

* * *

 

Punk Trip, for all of your viewing pleasure. UR WELCOME.

Lance hanging on the sofa after a KILLER party ;-)

 

 

AAAAAAaaaaaaannnd the Simmons'!

* * *

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I love Vera. She's such a brick. 
> 
> I'll try to update once a week - probably on Fridays. 
> 
> A big thank-you to the amazing memorizingthedigits of pi for all of her graphics, and her amazing beta work, and for creating the most perfect couples portrait ever!


	3. She's a Knock-out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After an excruciating dinner party, Jemma escapes back to her sanctuary, Lance's flat in Brixton, only to discover that her sofa has been occupied by Lance's drummer, some punk named Fitz. It does not exactly go over well.
> 
> The accounts of their first meeting differ wildly, but one thing's for certain - It's not like either of them are fixated, or anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to Pi for her amazing beta work - this story wouldn't be the same without you! Also, a big round of applause for @abookmole on tumblr, (my roomie) for putting up with all of this craziness, and being super excited to read it first.

 

* * *

 

 

“ _And who in the bloody hell are_ _you?!_ ” Jemma bellowed, gesturing to the man on the sofa.

His mouth, previously hanging open as he stared at her in shock, snapped shut. He clutched the blanket in his hand tighter and pulled it up under his chin, hiding the darkened, swirling patterns that painted his shoulders and torso.

His mouth thinned into (what she assumed was) a disapproving line as he swept an appraising gaze over her, his brows clenching together. Hurriedly, he used his free hand to push the limp swatch of hair from his eyes, and blinked pointedly at her in the dark.

“This is _my_ sofa! This is where _I_ sleep!” Jemma declared, gesturing tyrannically. “Well? Say something! Explain this _completely_ misinformed and calamitous decision of yours before I start explaining it to the _police_! Where even _is_ Lance?”

The man gawped at her for a few shocked seconds, or he could have been yawning - it was dark, so Jemma could not be sure of the particular action - and then he proceeded to _close his bloody eyes!_

Jemma sputtered around a few lost syllables, flailing impotently as he rolled over. If he had said anything, she couldn’t hear it over the rushing sound of her anger.

The dormant rage that had been receding since she’d escaped the Kensington house exploded like an inferno. It burned through her torso, firing her nerves, and propelling her forward, like a steam engine on full tilt.

Jemma lunged forward, wrenching a sofa cushion out from under the offensive intruder and slammed it down against his head, over, and over, and over again.

He raised his hands up in surrender, tumbling off the couch as he screeched, “ _I’m Fitz ! I’M FITZ_ ! I _said_ I was Fitz! The drummer! Holy mother of all things!”

“The drummer? The DRUMMER?! _THE LECHEROUS DRUMMER WHO PETITIONED TO CALL THE BAND THE TITS?_ ” Jemma hurled the pillow at his head one last time as he rolled up in a ball. “This is - This is _just rich_ ,” She was about ready to launch into another tirade, “Well now that I have your ear, _Fitz_ -”

“-JEMMA!” Lance’s voice was loud and commanding as the bedroom door slammed against the wall, flung open roughly, “Shut _UP!_ It’s nearly two in the _BLOODY_ morning! I’ve got to be up in three hours! You weren’t even supposed to _be here_ tonight, so don’t _even_ try to pull this imperious princess act on poor Fitz - And _for god’s sake_ , put some trousers on!” He added, shielding his eyes like he’d been blinded.

“-Oh no you don’t!” Jemma hissed, following Lance back into his room.

From his foetal position on the rug, Fitz pulled his blanket over his head, and groaned loudly.

“He was ignoring me!” Jemma insisted, tripping over a pile of laundry and VCR tapes. She straightened up and added, accusingly, “It’s because I’m not punk rock enough, isn’t it? _Well!_ Just because I haven’t got a Chelsea haircut and tatt-” She gulped, an image flashing through her mind of the curling ink that patched Fitz’s skin, “Tattoos, that _doesn’t mean I’m not important_ or that my views shouldn’t be heard, or that I’m not _worthy_ of listening to!”

Lance spun around, “What is going through your head right now? I _fucking_ swear, every time you come back from that house you’re like some insane harpy, shrieking about invisible hardships! Fitz needed a place to crash for a time - you weren’t gonna be here, so I gave him the _bloody_ couch! That’s the story, _END OF!_ Now quit having a bloody tantrum!”

He shoved a pillow and a blanket at her and gestured to a clear spot on the floor. “...Just go to bed.” He said, exhaustion dripping from his tone.

“I’m sorry I gave the sofa away for the night. And I’m sorry you came in bloody unannounced, and I’m sorrier still that Harcourt gave you such a hard time of it that you had to escape here for the night and take it out on my drummer.”

He flung himself onto the mattress, diagonal and spread-eagle. “Still doesn’t give you the right to go barging in here accosting my guests and waking me up when you know I’ve got early shifts on Saturdays,”

Jemma carefully picked her way across the floor, hugging the pillow to her chest. Her expression was contrite.

“...I know.” Her voice was small as she laid her pillow down and carefully folded her blanket in half, snuggling down inside it. “...I’m sorry, Big.”

Lance sighed.

“S’fine Li’l.”

She rolled over onto her side, the floor sharp against her hip bone.

An uncomfortable half hour passed before she cleared her throat.

“...Lance?”

“What?” He groaned.

“You’re a good big brother,” She said.

“I know.”

“...But a _great_ big brother would give me the bed.” She insinuated.

“I take you in at least five nights a week out of the goodness of my heart, you little street urchin,”

“- Or at least scoot over and let me share it,”

Lance groaned deeply, with an impressive fervour for his level of exhaustion and the wee hour of night that he found himself in. “ _No_ , a great big brother would not. We’re adults - It’s weird Jem. You’re a weirdo. Now go to sleep and leave poor Fitz alone, you harridan,”

 

* * *

 

“I don’t care, I don’t.” Jemma said, biting savagely into her croissant, “Not one bit. So he doesn’t like me. I don’t need everyone to like me,”

Skye just raised her eyebrows and took a long pull from her straw.

“There is something to be said for making people fear you,” Jemma mused, “Machiavelli himself -”

“Are you sure he was afraid, exactly? Didn’t he just, kinda, yawn and roll over?”

“Not after I hit him repeatedly with a _very_ dense sofa cushion.” Jemma informed her. “There was fear in his eyes.”

“Wasn’t it like two AM? In the dark?”

“...I could sense it.”

 

* * *

 

“I thought I was dreamin’ at first - y’know those dreams where you’re half asleep so everything is still so realistic and it all makes just enough sense to seem like you’re awake? I thought for sure, it had to be one of those - There she is, velvet gown like midnight just gatherin’ at her feet, and she’s all soft lines, just pale curves, I can just barely tell in the dark. Then she starts rollin’ down her stockings like she’s some sort of burlesque dancer, slow and careful and _caressin’_ them down her thighs, tuggin’ em down over her heels,” Under the car, Fitz just trailed off into a whimper.

He stuck his hand out by the passenger side, and interrupted his own tale, “Socket wrench, Mack,”

“An’ then, totally unpretentiously, she just snaps off her bra! Now, I can’t see anythin’ clearly from my vantage point, and I’m thinkin’ ‘ _it’s a dream, just enjoy it, ’_ anyways, so I didn’t think I was bein’ ungentlemanly,” He added as an aside, sounding guilty enough to make Mack chuckle in his throat as he slapped the socket wrench into Fitz’s outstretched palm, “But the way her...Her…. _um_ …”

“Boobs?” Mack supplies amusedly, a crooked smile pinned to the corner of his mouth.

“...Yeah. _Boobs_ _._ ”

Fitz snapped his fingers and motioned towards the toolbox, “Anyways, her boobs - _breasts_? That’s a prettier word, isn’t it? Her breasts,” He sighed, lost in the replay that looped in his mind, “I can’t quite see ‘em yet, but I can make out the curve in the shadows,”

“They looked good, huh?”

“Like they’d just spill a bit out of your hand, you know? Like the perfect handful,” He took the tool Mack offered. “An’ then, near as naked as god made her - she just walks over to the ‘fridgerator,”

Fitz wheeled himself out from under the vehicle so he could look Mack in the eye and impress upon him the importance of the scene he was about to relay.

“Please tell me at this point you started to realize it wasn’t a dream, that you were just spying on this poor girl? _Lance’s sister_?”

“But y’have to understand, I was too far gone now to turn back, and if it was a dream - _which all logical signs pointed to!_ Then it wasn’t wrong to keep lookin’ when the fridge light turned on.” Fitz pleaded.

“ _Black lacy pants_ _,_ Mack. If you can call somethin' that tiny pants at all - an' she just stood there, as you please, arching her back like somethin' from a dirty magazine. I swear, that fridge should be canonized, because I think I saw heaven in that ray of light. Hunter's fridge is a saint. And his sister's breasts are God.”

 

* * *

 

“-And _really_ ,” Jemma continued, as she and Skye walked down to the Sciences building, “How much could he have seen?”

“He definitely saw you in your skivvies.”

“...Yes, but I think he was far more concerned with the terrifying beating I was applying to his head than what was covering my bum,” Jemma said.

“Yeah...That terrifying beating where you hit him with a pillow in your panties. I’m sure that scared him.”

Skye added in a deadpan, “If he’s totally gay.”

“I was _very_ aggressive!” Jemma insisted.

“Please tell me you didn’t wear your days of the week panties at least?” Skye’s eyebrows raised in concern.

 

* * *

 

“Black lacey knickers. High-cut, string-bikini, and a Clash t-shirt.”

Fitz wiped the grease from his hands and took a step towards the sink, his grin a mile wide and his eyes dazed. “Hittin’ me with a pillow. That was when I realized for sure, obviously, that it wasn’t a dream,” he breathed.

“This sounds like something I’d read in the Penthouse letters, ‘ _Sexy Surprise Slumber Party - Pillow Fight Included’_ ,” Mack joked.

“Of course, that was before she started screamin’ about the police and wantin’ to know who I was and what I was doin’ on her sofa...”

“So what did you say?”

 

* * *

 

“Nothing?” Skye asked, confusion panning her features.

“Not a bloody word.” Jemma said, scanning her badge as Harry, the security guard, checked her purse.

“I am quite certain he was awake, and not in some sort of sleep-state,” Jemma puzzled, “He glanced me up and down very pointedly with this look -”

“What kind of look?”

“ _I don’t know!_ ” Jemma huffed, aggravatedly, “A _look!_ A not good one - like he was affronted by my very presence, which of course, is nonsensical, as it’s my couch!”

“And then?”

“He just blinked, _disdainfully_ \- “

“- is it _possible_ to blink disdainfully?”

Jemma shot Skye a silencing look. The other girl raised her hands in surrender.

“-Yawned a bit, and turned away from me! Like he was just going to roll over and ignore me, because I wasn’t as hip and punk or as covered in tattoos as he was.”

 

* * *

 

“So you just…”

“Turned away. Yes.” Fitz nodded. “I thought it was the gentlemanly thing to do! I had noticed that it wasn’t a dream at that point, quite clearly - I’ve got a bruise on my kneecap to prove it - and I didn’t want to further enrage her by starin’ at her in her teeny-tiny pants and watching her perfect breasts jiggle under her shirt - I’m not a lech, _regardless_ of what that beautiful an’ terrifyin’ English harpy thinks,”

“But you just up and turned over?” Mack reiterated slowly.

“ _YES_. It was the proper thing to do. Honestly Mack, I worry about the etiquette they teach you in America,”

“Etiquette, _uh-huh_ ,” Mack intoned knowingly.

“What’s _that_ s’posed to mean?”

“You sure it wasn’t just not being able to pick your jaw up off the floor and string together the words ‘I’m Fitz, I drum in your brother’s band’?”

Fitz stuck his hands on his hips and sputtered offendedly, “IT WAS A GENTLEMANLY _COURTESY_!”

 

* * *

 

“Sheer rudeness! That’s what it was!” Jemma declared, three hours later, in a complete non-sequitur as she attempted to titrate a sample solution.

“You know? I don’t care. _I do not even care_. Not one bit.”

Skye, meanwhile, was writing distractedly in a notebook, just nodding her head.

“ _And another thing!_ ” Jemma snapped, “I may be a snob about many things, but I have never been a snob like that!” She threw up her hands, “I can name every single Clash song, and I know a good number of Ramones lyrics! And I did very well at Quiz night in the pub when they were asking about the members of the Sex Pistols! So _there!_ I may not look like a punk, but in knowledge and in deed and in political thought, I am just as much of a punk as he is! ...Probably!”

“...Tell me again, how much you do not care about what this Fitz guy thinks of you?”

“Not even an iota.”

“ _Mhmmm_.” Skye mumbled, scribbling in her notebook.

 

* * *

 

“So...What with... _that_ \- um, fallin’ through,” Fitz looked down at his shoes as they scuffed along the cement of the shop floor and scratched his ear sheepishly. “I, uh, was _wonderin’_ ,”

He blew out a puff of air, and soldiered on, “If uh, you’d be willin’ -  and only if it wouldn’t put you out at all - to um, let me crash here? In the office? On the sofa? Just, uh, for a little while.”

Mack shrugged, nonplussed. “Yeah, why not? It gets a bit cold at night though.” The larger man pushed the tool chest he’d been working with back against the wall. “I thought things were okay with you, money-wise, though?”

“Well,” Fitz ran his hands up along the stiff sides of his mohawk, a nervous-tick, making sure none of his belligerent curls strayed from the glue, as he let out a heavy breath. “I would have been, but they put that Poll Tax in place back home, and Mum’s not exactly rollin’ in dough. Two jobs, and all her savings to help me with school - fat lot of good that did when they raised the tuition for the engineering faculty -”

“The fact that they had to up tuition that much to cover material costs? _Criminal_.” Mack agreed, shaking his head.

“-And well, she didn’t have enough to cover it. So I sent her some money.”

Mack raised an eyebrow, “How much money is ‘some money’?”

Fitz ran his thumb along the outline of a skull tattooed into his arm, and bit the inside of his cheek. “..All of it?” He squeaked out, chagrined.

“And there goes your deposit, and first and last month’s rent.” Mack concluded.

Fitz shrugged. “Mum needed it - She’s done so much for me, and it’s not as though house-keepin’ is the life of millionaires,”

“I hear _that_ ,” Mack nodded, tossing his rag toward the sink. Then he sighed, digging into a drawer and pulling out a key. “Here. It’s for the office. When you leave, just lock up.”

He paused, and then asked, as Fitz pocketed the metal, “Why couldn’t you just stay where you were staying?”

“Residence Advisor found me squatting in an unused dorm…” Fitz gave a sheepish grin, “Whoops.”

Fitz pulled on his leather jacket and grabbed his discarded backpack from his locker, stuffing his drumsticks in the back-pocket of his tight black jeans.

“Band practice?” Mack inquired, a salacious note to his tone. “Jemma gonna be there?”

Fitz shrugged, but couldn’t hide the wide grin that flashed. He tried to tamp it down, but it just kept returning, like a morse code signal. “Maybe. I didn’t ask or anythin',”

Mack handed him a rolled up collection of papers, haphazardly bound with staples. “Figured out what you’re gonna say to her, yet?”

“Not as of yet.” Fitz unrolled the papers, and recognized the ‘zine. “oh, _ta_. ‘Fraid I’d lost that one,”

“I saw some of your margin notes - man, the way your brain works. It’s like looking at symphony when you can barely read sheet music.”

Fitz stuffed his copy of _The Rising Tide: Edition 2_ in beside his drumsticks, “See - the thing is, the _thing_ is - She’s incredibly smart, right? Two Ph.D’s, Trip was sayin’, and she’s a scientist too - and I’ve already made a bit of a negative impression, so I need it to be the perfect thing. I can’t waste the moment on somethin’ trivial. Whatever I say to her next, it has to be intelligent and witty, and show her I’m not just some lecherous, lowlife, punk drop-out.”

“You’ll think of something, Turbo,” Mack chuckled, clapping his employee on the shoulder. “Now go get’m tiger.”

 

* * *

 

Jemma's pillow-attack wear.

Skye's everyday wear.


	4. Have You Ever Fallen In Love (With Someone You Shouldn't Have?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jemma has a very good reason for dragging Skye to Lance's band practice. Three very good reasons, in fact.
> 
> 1) She is a very loving sister who believes in encouraging her brother's dreams and ambitions, and supporting him in all his endeavours.
> 
> 2) She is going to show Skye that she, Jemma, is indeed a bigger person and willing to admit her own failings and try to remedy them by introducing herself to Lance's drummer in a proper manner - a manner that etiquette, and her mother, would dictate appropriate.
> 
> 3) She will also prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that, regardless of whatever mad notions the Skye had in respect to Jemma’s many analytical conversations about the events of that night, the drummer in question was clearly not going to be half as handsome in daylight as he had seemed, ensconced in shadows, and that she was in no way ‘fixated’ on him. Or his opinion of her. It hardly mattered.

* * *

 

“Just a _little_ syncopation, Fitz!” Lance snapped into the mic, turning to glare. “Just vary the rhythm a bit - Like, enough to hook’em, and _then_ go back to the rhythm and the back-beat.”

Fitz rested his hand softly on the high-hat and resisted a groan. For an hour and a half, they’d been building the arrangements for the cover songs they wanted in their repertoire.

Fitz tapped his sticks against his thighs. Lance was waffling continually on the sound they wanted for their Elvis cover and Can’t Help Falling in Love was turning into a morass of cymbals and power-chords. If he didn’t make a decision as the front-man soon, Fitz was going to lose it.

He scrubbed his knuckles against the grain of his buzzed hair, rough against his temple. It was all he could take, watching Lance try to direct laid-back, easy-going Trip. The other man’s eyes were narrowing, and his perpetually warm smile was dwindling. The corners of his mouth tugged frustratedly downwards.

“Actually, maybe stick to the syncopation a little more?” Lance called over his shoulder, before turning back to Trip. “And like, if we just keep the base line one-note, down-tempo...Maybe try it slo-punk?”

“Enough already!” Fitz shouted.

Trip eased a sigh of relief, “He’s right man, you’re _way_ overthinking this.”

“Just pick one, for god’s bloody sake!” Fitz rounded, his knee bouncing up and down in a fast rhythm.

He slammed his sticks against the high-hat, the crash reverberating in the tall store room, Lance’s full attention on him as he shot to stand. “Either we speed it up and kill the syncopation and complexity on the second verse and pound it out Ramones style, or we do a Ska take on it - scratch the tempo, riff off the beat, and let Trip get a bass groove! But just make a blasted decision already, _for fucksake_!”

He stuffed his sticks in his pocket, and stormed off of the rug-strewn patch of concrete, over to the delivery bay door. “I’m takin’ a walk.”

Bright sunlight streamed into the pub’s store room, bleaching the colour into a wash of white as he exited, huffing under his breath.

“Yeah, yeah,” Lance said loudly. “We’ll all take five! It’s a good time...for that.”

Fitz waved in confirmation, and Lance sighed, shoulders slumping.

“Why on earth are you so het up about this song, man?” Trip asked, setting his guitar down and plucking a beer from the huge wall fridge. He passed one over to Lance.

“...It’s Bob’s favourite.”

“ _Ahhh…_ ”

“I just want to get it right. You know that hell beast. She’ll be a royal pain in my arse if I don’t,” he muttered into his beer.

“Mhmmm,” Trip smiled. “And you _hate_ that.”

“The woman’s a _menace_.”

“Speaking of menacing women,” Izzy pushed open the door into the pub, her girlfriend Vic’s fiery red streaks visible behind her. “We found these two wandering into this pit of vipers.”

"The more the merrier. The world could do with a bit more vicious women-loving women." Vic declared.

Jemma snorted, but her cheeks coloured pink as she walked out from behind them with Skye at her heels. Izzy elbowed Vic lightly in the side. “Quit embarrassing the poor straight girls.”

“The straight _girl_ ,” Skye clarified as she strolled past.  

Skye stopped suddenly, taking in Lance and Trip’s wide eyes and open mouths, and cringed. “Sorry. I’m an oversharer...Who’s got two thumbs and is bisexual?”

She pointed to herself, her voice a bit nervous. “Um, this girl?”

“That is - “ Lance began.

“- Very much okay,” Jemma finished, tilting her head and squeezing Skye’s arm. “No one here will judge you for it. _Obviously_. The clientele here is decidedly not straight, regularly, and Izz and Vic hold a Ladies’ Night twice weekly -- you know, for ladies, who like ladies, _and_ Lance and Trip kissed once on a dare.”

“ _JEMMA!_ ” Lance screeched, sounding strangled. “I’d thank you _not_ to bring up that _one_ time _ever again_. We were drunk! _And_ Bobbi and Kara would only kiss if we did, so…”

Trip shrugged. “He needed chapstick.”

Izzy looked pointedly at her watch. “Remember, you’ve both got shifts starting at five - and we open in two hours, so try to be on time? Wrap this up a bit early? And you play Saturday’s Ladies’ Night for free.”

Lance saluted the older woman as Jemma and Skye shared a ruined looking arm-chair.

“And don’t drink all my beer or it’ll come off your paycheck,” Izzy declared, making the ‘ _I’m watching you'_ gestureas she backed out of the room.

Jemma pulled out a worn-looking notebook and a pen as Skye settled into her perch on the chair arm, throwing casual glances over towards Trip.

Following suit, Jemma cast her eyes about - first at the unmanned drum kit, and around the whole store room. She harumphed and fell back against the chair. “Looks like you’re missing someone,” she observed dryly.

Behind her, the clatter of the roller-door sounded and the light dimmed quickly. She heard grumbling and the shuffling of feet. “I was on my break - Can’t a man take f _ive minutes_ to think in peace Iz-” Suddenly realizing who was ensconced in the chair (Jemma’s inquisitive face had poked around the side), Fitz’s feet stuttered to a stop.

A sudden trepidation flooded him with nerves. It pooled in his hands - his fingertips twitching around his drumsticks. He absently began twirling them, an outlet in the movement.

“... _Hi_ ,” He managed, somewhere around the second try.

She seemed to sink away from him, gulping as her eyes widened and darted to his mohawk before sweeping from his tattooed forearms to his nervously twirling hands. He stopped suddenly, and shoved his sticks into his pocket, wincing. Had he frightened her? _She must have been a little frightened - a man suddenly appearing in the middle of the night. She must just have hid it with her anger., And now, here she is - and what is that expression on her face? Is she scared of me? Is it the mohawk? The tattoos?_

 _I don’t stand a chance._ Fitz quickly dropped his gaze, his shoulders rolling forward as he turned towards his drums.

“ _Hel_ \- Hello,” Jemma called out behind him. “Hi.”

He heard her moving to stand, and when he risked a timid glance upward, he caught sight of her outstretched hand. He took it in his, but still avoided her eyes.

“I’m Jemma,” she said, her voice a bit thin, like she’d exerted herself getting out of the armchair. “And you’re Fitz?”

He flicked his eyes up to her face. _God she was pretty_ \- her high cheekbones were dusted a soft rose-pink, and her amber-coloured eyes shone. “Mm-” He sounded, nodding. “-Mhmmm.”

He dropped her hand, joining the guys in the rehearsal space.

“So I think, let’s go Ramones style. It’s simpler, and a bit cleaner, and erm,” Lance shot a glance to the girls before stepping closer, hand covering the mic so they couldn’t hear him whisper, “- _we’re not exactly good enough to try anything more complicated_.”

“ _Speak for yourself_ ,” Fitz whispered back, his gaze lingering on Jemma, who seemed studiously intent on the journal balanced on her knee. Her strong brows were drawn together, and her lips were pursed in focus.

“There is, uh, one thing though - before we get back to practicin’,” Fitz scratched his rapidly flushing neck. “Our name. I think we should change it.”

“-What? Why? The Tits is a great name!” Lance whined. Jemma’s head shot up, suddenly interested.

“-I just, I, uh, I don’t think it’s really us?” Fitz continued. “I mean, Punk is about destabilizin’ the establishment, and I don’t really think we’re doing anythin’ destabilizin’ by reinforcin’ the Patriarchy’s need to uh, objectify,” Fitz struggled to wrench his gaze from Jemma’s lips as they curled softly around the end of her pen in a small, pleased smile, “-Objectify women...and all that.”

“You wanted to name us The Tits just as bad as I did!” Lance cried, trying to catch Fitz’s eyes from where they focused just over his shoulder.

Fitz cleared his throat and rolled his shoulders forward, shrugging. He’d deduced, from the way she’d referred to him as a lech and how vociferous she’d been about the band name, and knowing she was an academic woman, that Hunter’s sister was probably a feminist. So he’d spent a few hours the previous night encamped in the Women’s Studies section of the University’s library (they still hadn’t revoked his library card), reading up on it. Just in case it came up.

“I just did some thinkin’,” he lied.

His nose scrunched slightly as the corner of his mouth pulled lopsidedly upwards - the clear tell to his untruth. “-Off the cuff, on my walk, and I thought - we want a female fanbase, don’t we? We want to rail against the state and the established order, yeah? Well, then we’d best change our name. It only makes _sense_.”

“The Noise and the Punk?” Trip suggested again.

Lance shook his head and waved the suggestion away as though it were an annoying fly. “No, that’s still terrible. If it can’t be the Tits, then what about, like, the Night-Sticks? Because it’s like a double entendre, see? Still sexy, because at night, I’ve got a _stick_ , eh?” He grinned insinuatingly between the two others. “ _Ehhhh_? Night? _Stiiiiiick_?” He nodded at them, his grin holding, “Because the stick is -”

“A penis, yes, we _all_ understand the innuendo,” Jemma interrupted. Skye laughed loudly.

Fitz cut a small grin her way as he stepped behind his drum kit.

“Come on, it’s clever!” Lance insisted. Skye shot him double thumbs-up.

"Next you'll be mentionin' the _penal_ system," Fitz joked. “And bad girls needin’ to be punished.”

Jemma barked out a surprised laugh, her eyes lighting up. Fitz couldn't help the chuffed grin that formed. He spun his drumstick around in his palm, and knocked out a quick beat.

"Just because she thinks you're clever," Lance began, and then shot a look of realization between Jemma and Fitz. "Wait - she thinks you're _clever_..."

"- can we just get back to the song?" Trip asked.

They rehearsed Can’t Help Falling in Love for another half an hour. Jemma tried, very diligently, to focus her mind on her journal and put her thoughts on the current climate of economic oppression into words for her next ‘zine article. She was trying to connect the low post-secondary entry-rates into the sciences with the lack of ability to achieve Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs whichthus, stagnated the pool of minds in the scientific community. The problem, she determined, as her high-tops bobbed in concert with the driving rock beat, was the music.

Or, more specifically, who was making it.

Jemma licked her lips unconsciously, her eyes drifting over to the reverberating drum kit. Fitz played with a frenetic energy that never seemed to dissipate - a restlessness that drove him. His eyebrows pursed together, eyes intent and blue - _so blue it hurts_ \- as his hands flashed about in a meticulous rhythm, swift and sure. His foot pounded on the pedal and the beat and rhythm he shook out seemed to be something wholly internal, something that came from inside him, something deep that needed to be excised, something that moved him.

She squirmed a little in her seat and felt her stomach flip-flop as her eyes trained on his rapidly working forearms. His muscles tensed and released, making the tattoos that branded his skin shift like sea water. She could make out a few of the motifs, softer than she’d initially anticipated.  Of course there were the requisite skulls, but birds, and flowers too - stars, scrollwork, all so entwined, running down nearly to his hands. Jemma shifted the pen in her mouth as she continued to stare, her tongue swirling lightly around the cap, watching those long, dexterous fingers work a rhythm into the air.

She heard a breathy sigh escape, and realized, suddenly, that it was hers. She then proceeded to scowl with fervour.

Her plan had failed.

She had come here here today to prove a point to herself (and to Skye) that, yes, while she was rather upset about the other evening at Lance’s flat, she was:

A) a bigger person and willing to admit her own failings and try to remedy them by introducing herself in a proper manner - a manner that etiquette, and her mother, would dictate appropriate, and she was:

B) going to show Skye that, regardless of whatever mad notions the other girl had in respect to Jemma’s many analytical conversations about the events of that night, the drummer in question was clearly not going to be half as handsome in daylight as he had seemed, ensconced in shadows, and that she was in no way ‘fixated’ on him. Or his opinion of her. It hardly mattered.

Only, ever since Jemma had seen him again, it had all seemed to backfire, unaccountably.

Jemma excelled in planning. Her preparation skills were exemplary. She could not have predicted in the slightest, as he emerged from the delivery bay, that he would appear somehow more handsome than before.

The crisp light delineated the angle of his jaw and the light stubble that shadowed it. She could see the slim, long line of him, the coloured tracery that disappeared beneath his t-shirt. There was something about his face that drew her eye. Maybe it was his brow, how easily it telegraphed the emotions that ran across his features. Or perhaps it was his eyes - deep-set and turned away, as if he couldn’t bring himself to look at her (as if he were offended, truly _so offended_ he could not bear to behold her, appallingly mainstream as she was), except for that jolting flash of lapis blue.

 _They are beautiful eyes_ , Jemma mused, sneaking another glance. _Damn him_. She frowned and turned back to her page. She’d given up on her article and was fiddling now with different chemical formulae.

She hazarded another glance. Perhaps it was his lips. _They look so_ -

“He keeps staring,” Skye whispered, interrupting Jemma’s train of thought.

“ _Who, Fitz!?_ ” Jemma scoffed, fighting a rising blush.

“No - but now I know what you’re thinking about.” Skye raised an eyebrow pointedly. “Trip. He keeps staring at me...Do I have anything on my face? In my teeth?” Skye smiled painfully wide, turning her head to each side.

“Nothing in your teeth, nothing on your shirt. You look gorgeous,” Jemma said, patting Skye’s thigh.

“Enough with your flirting, woman. I already offered to help you experiment. You don't need to convince the test subject,” Skye teased, shoving Jemma playfully in the shoulder. “But _noooo_ , she said, I’m a ‘ _scientist_ ’ she said, _‘Kinsey scale 1.5 - only incidentally_ homosexual’ she said.”

“Careful. You’ll make Trip jealous,” Jemma tittered behind her hand, pointing subtly to where the man in question was fingering the bass, his gaze intent on them.

Skye blushed prettily in response. "Stop!"

Jemma giggled and turned back to her journal. Her eyes might have been focused on the page, but her mind was fast spiralling along a dangerous course. She tossed the bookby her feet in aggravation.

She'd tried to be polite, truly, she had - even jumping in to help him along! But he'd flummoxed it up. He hadn't even said a word to her! No apology, which of course, prevented her from extending her own. If he wasn't going to apologize, she wouldn't either.

And then he'd had the gall - the _unmitigated gall_ to force a name change for anarcho-feminist reasons! Why he had to be smart _in addition_ to being distractingly attractive, she didn't know. And then he'd continued to basically ignore her.  Why he had to be so standoffish bothered her. But the fact that she cared about it - because she had to admit, after everything, that she _did_ care, heaven knows why - bothered her exponentially more.

Perhaps it was that he didn't seem to extend the same amount of fascination back to her. But there had been plenty of men who weren't interested in her - regardless of her reputation as a nubile, young science prodigy, and she'd easily been able to brush it off before.

Maybe it was because he didn't even pretend to listen, or to care, or to find her worthy in the slightest. She was sick unto death of being disregarded and set aside and made to feel as if she took up too much space in a small room by the men in her life. Men who found her silly and spoke to her with such condescension, as if they were just holding back sighs every time she dared to speak out of turn or relay an unpopular opinion. Men who only seemed interested in her accomplishments or her thoughts when she was being paraded around for them like a trained monkey, dancing to their tune.

And she was utterly, utterly tired of it. And this, this _Fitz character_ , who barely took the time to even look at her, was the epitome of all of that.

That was what had her so bothered. _Obviously._

Jemma quickly glanced at her watch. “Blast!” She shot to her feet, grabbing her bag as she leaned in for a quick hug, pecking Skye on the cheek. “If I don’t run now I’ll be late for tea with father!”

She tore out of the room as the guitars kept playing - the beat skittering away as Fitz stumbled to stand. “Good - uh, goodbye,” he said awkwardly.

Lance’s eyes ricocheted once more between the space where Jemma had been and Fitz.

“Oh no, mate,” Lance set his guitar down roughly, the sound thrumming discordantly.  he walked over to Fitz and grabbed him around his bicep, marching him double-time out into the empty pub.

“Look, I like you, you know that right?” he said.

“...yes?” Fitz answered, confused.

“And I’m sure you’re not some kind playboy, or anything like that,” Lance continued. “And I know that you don’t know, so I’m telling you, alright?”

“Alright?”

“Jemma - She’s a brat, and she’s spoiled, and she’s more stubborn than an ox, but she’s also the most clever person I know, and the most big-hearted, and if you hurt her, I swear to god, they will not find your body.”

“...I don’t, I don’t even know her?” Fitz managed, quirking a thoroughly confused eyebrow.

“Anything you do to her, I’ll do to you. With a broomstick.”

Fitz fumbled around understanding. “Is this about the other night? I swear, I didn’t even know what was happenin’ until she hit me with a pillow. I turned away as soon as I realized! I tried to be a gentleman,”

Lance leaned intimidatingly close and patted Fitz’s cheek roughly. “Aye-aye, Fitzy-boy. You keep on being a gentleman.” He took another step into Fitz’s personal space. His words heavy with significance, he added, “A _broomstick_. Remember that.”

Lance let the door swing back and forth as he made a dramatic exit.

“...Okay, but why a broomstick?” Fitz muttered, following him back to the rehearsal space.

 


	5. Anarchy in the U.K.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jemma meets her father for tea and struggles to break free of the life he envisions for her. After a snap decision, she turns to Lance for help, only to find that her dependable brother is nowhere to be found, and the only person able to help is a man she's sure can't stand her - Fitz.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big, biiiiiiiiig shout out to my roomie @abookmole (on the tumblrs) who was an unbelievable help while I wrote the Jemma/Harcourt conversation! Much of Harcourt's character is thanks to a long conversation we had, basically role-playing the scene. This chapter couldn't have been done without her!
> 
> Another big thank you to my amazing Beta, memorizingthedigitsofpi, who's been swamped IRL, and still somehow managed to find the time to help me edit this chapter. She's a dynamo, folks.

* * *

 

Jemma skidded into the tea-house, her face flush with exertion. She spotted her father at a table framed by a large bay window and seated behind a painterly teal, rose, and beige curtain. He had a folder open in front of him.

“For how many, Miss?” The hostess stared at her red high-tops superciliously.

“I’ve already spotted my table,” Jemma smiled politely, striding past.

“Hello Father,” she breathed, sliding prettily into the seat across from him. There was a spray of peonies and blush-coloured cabbage roses centered on the white-work tablecloth.

Harcourt glanced up once and passed the menu to her, waving towards the waiter. Once she’d ordered and the waiter had left their table, Harcourt said, “You’re late, Jemma.” He flipped his folder closed and took his glasses off, folding the arms down carefully and tucking them into his jacket pocket. “Were you held up at the lab?”

Jemma shook her head, “No, I was with Lance – He’s started a band! They’re not bad –“

Harcourt made a frustrated sound and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I hardly understand what is so enticing about wasting time with that brother of yours.  I should think that the lab is a more pressing matter; what with the tuition cheques I write out every semester.”

The waiter approached with her tea service. As he laid it out before her, Jemma swallowed her retort. Keeping her thoughts to herself, she silently continued to fix her tea. She poured the milk in a thick stream and took care to swirl it with the fine silver spoon.

“…It’s been such a lovely spring,” she remarked off-handedly, waving the spoon towards the sunny window. “And what a lovely establishment, so close to your office – It’s so nice.”

“It would have been nicer if you had been on time, Jemma Elizabeth.”

Jemma began to stumble out an apology. “I am sorry, Father.  I… I just lost track of time, and then the tube was behind, and I missed my bus...”  

She stopped suddenly at his look of consternation and forced a smile. “Honestly Father, can’t we just have a nice tea?  What with the American subsidiary taking all of your focus lately, I barely see you anymore. Tell me, what are you working on?”

“That promising young man, Ward or whatever – Garrett’s protégé – put forth an intriguing idea regarding the importance of remote surveillance.  He mentioned a young engineer that may be brilliant enough to make it work.  However, he has been proving quite difficult to meet with.  Apparently he has dropped out of the university and we haven’t been able to locate him since.”

“How intriguing,” Jemma said, her eyebrows quirking up. “What a mystery!”

“Truly, Jemma, it is.” Harcourt replied.  “This gentleman shows great promise – could be just the talent we need to secure in order to bring Roxxon into the 21st Century.  Genius mechanical engineer, quantum physicist, intelligence quotient off the charts.  You simply cannot understand what a percentage of the market we could seize in defense contracting with him as a part of the Roxxon family.”

Jemma let Harcourt further expound on the virtue of the promising engineer. The mystery man _did_ seem too good to true.  But, she reasoned, listening to his voluble list of accomplishments, if she could get to him first, she might just find a partner with which to fully develop the dendrotoxin. The compound, the delivery mechanism, the entire range of possibilities to secure her thesis -- and her reputation in the scientific community. With this mysterious gentleman as a partner, why, they could very well write their own ticket!

Jemma smiled and took a sip of her tea.

Harcourt interrupted her reverie. “But that’s hardly the purpose of our meeting today. I requested this tea to discuss your future.” Harcourt spread clotted cream thickly on a scone.   “Let’s begin with your prospects.”

Jemma crashed down to reality. “Father, I haven’t made a decision about – “ _Roxxon yet._

“— Vera tells me you dislike Sunil.  You do understand that Sunil is well-respected in the company; groomed to reach the highest echelons of Roxxon.  He’s loyal, obedient, takes direction well—“

Under her breath she muttered, “You make him sound like a lap-dog.”

Harcourt set down his butter knife with a rough clatter and raised a judgemental eyebrow. “And what kind of man would you prefer?”

“I would _prefer_ someone with a mind of his own. Someone creative and not afraid to step over the line and see things through.  Someone who’s passionate, with great integrity and ideals –”

“You’re young. You don’t know what you want.”

Jemma opened her mouth to retort but caught a glimpse of their waiter out of the corner of her eye. They were in public.  She reminded herself sternly not to create a scene. _He still holds the purse strings._

Instead she sighed quietly and took a large bite of her scone.

Harcourt glared at her for her sigh before sighing himself.  He reached across the table and took her hand.

“Jemma, I want you to know how proud of you I am.  You’re so clever, and you mother and I only want the best for you.  You have such a promising future; I want to set you up for success.  You could achieve all of your scientific goals with Sunil by your side.  Why, you could be assistant to the head of Research and Development in _six to seven years_ , if not _less_.  I know how determined you are.  Why do you insist on seeing things from your perspective?  Why can’t you try to see things from _my_ point of view?"

He smiled lovingly (if with a shade of condescension). “The neurotoxin you’ve been developing for your thesis – I don’t understand why you won’t consider the financial benefits of steering your research towards exploring ways to neutralize our enemies overseas.”

“But Father, consider the benefits of maintaining enemy assets from a _non-lethal_ compound! Imagine the intelligence we could gain from it!”

Harcourt groaned and sat back, unbuttoning his double-breasted suit-jacket. “You’re still young yet, Jemma. I always forget that. Your feelings about this will change as you get older – start a family. You’ll realize how important it is to preserve our way of life.”

“I’m well aware of the importance of our soldiers on the front lines; however, I also realize that it isn’t only _our_ soldiers fighting. It’s not only _our_ way of life that requires preservation,” she spat through gritted teeth.

Harcourt leaned forward and whispered harshly, “It’s this type of _idealistic drivel_ that led to the Cold War.”

 _Keep your mouth shut, keep your mouth shut…_ Jemma reminded herself, taking an angry gulp of scalding tea.

“I can tell from your silence that you’re still fighting the truth,” Harcourt declared. “The world is a dangerous, difficult place, Jemma. You don’t understand how cruel the world can be, my dear. You look at the world with such rose-coloured glasses, believing everyone is as sweet and good as you are.”

He swept aside a few crumbs. “That’s why I trust you’ll join Roxxon after graduation.”

“I’m still considering -”

Disappointment flashed through his pale blue eyes. “Haven’t I been there for you, from the very beginning?  When you started this path, didn’t I help you? Didn’t I spend all those hours, away from work, helping you set up your little experiments? Didn’t I speak extensively _while on business trips_ with university admissions to secure you the best possible education?  An education that I helped plan for you, to keep you safe and comfortable after I am gone?”

Guilt and frustration roiled in the pit of her stomach, clawing their way in a battle up her throat, filling it thickly with unsaid words.

“You’re so young and impressionable. _So idealistic._ I only worry that your choices are based on a fictional notion of what the world should be, and not on what it is. You may have accomplished much more intellectually than your peers, but in mind and in body Jemma, you are still only a girl. You’ve always had your head in the clouds.  You have a long path ahead of you, and I won’t be here forever.  You need someone competent in your life to help you make the right decisions when I am gone. That is why Sunil would be _such_ a good match for you. I just know he would think through these decisions with a cool, rational mind.  He would be a perfect foil for your passion and impetuousness, and keep you grounded as you go off on these flights of fancy.”

Jemma drooped her tea spoon with a clatter, blinking rapidly to fight the haze of frustrated tears. She cleared her throat. She had to leave. She had to go. _Now._

She made a show of jumping as if shocked and looked down at the blank pager hanging from her belt. “Oh… Oh goodness Father. I, um, I _must_ go. Right away. The… lab assistant! Has paged me and requires my presence _immediately_.   _Terribly_ sorry to cut tea short, but I have to go.”

She slid her arms into her cobalt blue blazer, rearranging the shoulder-pads as she moved to stand.

Harcourt blinked in surprise. “Of course Jemma. I’ll have the car brought round.” He motioned to a waiter. “I’ll get him to bring the long-cord phone.”

“That will take too long, Father.  It’s only a block or two, I’ll run right over.” She insisted, slinging the gold chain of her purse over her shoulder.

“A lady doesn’t _run_ , Jemma.”

“Well, then I’ll walk briskly!”

Once Jemma had made her escape, she searched the pavement for the nearest payphone.  Quickly, she jogged over to the little red booth, covering her nose to shield it from the impressively strong odour of urine. Using her jacket sleeve to push aside the notices and bulletins and band posters, she paged Skye to call her at the phone-booth’s number, as soon as possible.

Skye called within minutes. “Hey Jem… and the Holograms.  What’s truly, truly, _truly_ outrageous?”  In the background, Jemma heard Lance yelling something incoherent.  Trip’s low voice said something indistinct, much closer to the phone.

“I’ll tell you what’s outrageous!” Jemma cried, missing the reference completely.  She choked out a tiny sob before gaining control of herself. She shook the tension from her free hand,  her vision still swimming.

“ _Woah_ , okay. Sorry.  What happened?” Skye asked, suddenly all concern.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Jemma insisted, frowning through the thickness in her throat.

She’d had enough! Enough of men relegating her to second lead in her own life, enough of being disregarded, of being exactly what everyone expected her to be, of following along – of being – of being good. So bloody good that she faded into a ghost, until she barely existed at all. It was time she took a stand.

“ _Okay_ …” Skye began.

Jemma screamed into her elbow and then took a deep breath. Setting her jaw sternly, she pursed her mouth in determination.

“It’s time for bingo dobbers and Kool-Aid, Skye.  Grab everything from the chemist and meet me at the Kensington house in twenty minutes. I’ll pay your fare.”

“OK, any particular colour?”

“ _ALL of them!_  Buy out the lot, I don’t care!  Charge it to my father.” Jemma rattled off his credit card information, twice.

“Sure.  Everything okay?”

“…Tea did not go well,” Jemma whispered and hung up.

She threw open the door of the booth and set off towards the Kensington house at a brisk march, hands clenched by her sides, seething.

 

 

* * *

 

"Oh wow!” Skye breathed in awe. “That magenta is _so boss_!” She ran her hands through Jemma’s hair as she blow-dried it.

Jemma gulped, nodding rapidly, her eyes wide as she took in the sultry, sweltering hue.

“Super bodacious,” Skye continued, grinning wide, her bangles clanking loudly. “So bitchin’.”

Jemma’s mouth began to unfurl in a wide, gleeful grin.

“Harcourt is gonna blow a freakin’ _gasket_!” Skye said, bouncing from one foot to the other excitedly as she fluffed Jemma’s dyed strands.

Skye bit her lip and tossed Jemma’s hair over her eye in a deep side part. “God, you look _hot_ , babe.” Skye’s watch alarm beeped, suddenly. “Aw crap. I gotta go – evening class.”

She grabbed her backpack from the tiled bathroom floor and rushed a peck to Jemma’s cheek. “Bye! Phone me later? Let me know how Harcourt takes it?” she begged, her eyes bright with mischief.

Jemma just gulped and nodded.

When she was alone, she brought her hands up to the ends of her hair, fingering the tips.

She stared at the girl in the mirror.

The girl that looked back was half-hidden behind a fall of magenta. The corner of her mouth curled slowly and sexily, and her eyes burned fiercely. She ran her fingers against her scalp, shaking out the strands. She looked tough, take-charge. She looked like she looked in her day-dreams.

Jemma ruffled it up, scrunching her hair as the ends stuck out. Like this, she looked a bit like Siouxsie Sioux. She sucked in her cheeks, turning her face from one side to the other.

“I’m so –“

“Jemma?” Her father’s voice carried loudly up the stairs.

She dropped her hands, letting out a terrified squeak. “ _\- dead_.”

He’d be so angry. He’d disapprove completely. He’d kick her out, cut her off, and stop helping with tuition.

He’d _disown_ her.

She opened the bathroom door a sliver, darting her eyes around. When she was sure the hallway was deserted, she bolted down to her bedroom, clutching the phone to her chest.

On her tip-toes, she ran back to the bathroom, locking the door behind her. Luckily, her mother had insisted on the extra-long phone cord, just in case of emergencies ( _“Break-ins, darling – At least she should be able to phone the police!” – “well, I suppose the reasoning is sound, Vera, dear.”_ )

She dialed the number, and repeated a litany under her breath,“ _Pick up, pick up, Lance, piiiiiiick uuuuuup!_ ”

The phone connected, and with barely a breath pause, Jemma launched in. “Oh Lance, I’ve done something stupid, I’m _so_ stupid, so, so completely and utterly _stupid_! I don’t know what came over me – or well, I _do_ – But I shouldn’t have let it! Father was doing what he _always_ does, trying to convince me to be a good little girl and listen to him, to follow the path he’s laid out for me, and I just, I _just_ – I couldn’t be… _good_ …any longer! I made a _terrible_ mistake…”

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other line. “How can I help?” a Scottish brogue answered. “Where are you Jemma? What d'you need?”

Jemma squeaked, covering her mouth with her hand and squeezing her eyes shut. _Just my luck, of course_.

“Oh! Lance is – He’s um, busy –“ She could hear the faint sounds of soft, feminine giggles and a slamming door in the background.

“He’s out. With Bobbi,” Fitz supplied. “I’m uh, I’m staying’ the night – unless, of course, you’re comin’ over? Because I can stay somewhere else, no trouble -”

Jemma shook her head and then groaned, realizing he couldn’t see it. “I’m not.”

“Can you – can you get him? I just – I really - I need my brother.” Her voice quavered, and she scolded herself silently.

Fitz could hear the tremulous trill in her tone. “Just wait on the line,” he said, rushing out of the flat.

Jemma sat on the edge of the tub, balancing the phone cradle on her knees and biting her cuticles. After a minute or two, there was a sound on the other end.

“Jemma?” Fitz’s voice was rough and a bit breathless, as if he’d torn up and down the building’s hallway. “He’s not here. I looked everywhere I could think. Guess you’re stuck with me, I’m afraid. Poor substitute – but, uh, maybe I can help?”

Jemma exhaled a humourless laugh. “Why on earth would _you_ want to help _me_?”

“...Because you sound like you need it?” he ventured.

Jemma growled deep in her throat, and then exhaled sharply. “You know what? I’ll _deal_ with it - don’t trouble yourself - “

“- No! no, _I mean_ , you sound like you could use a friend, and I’m on the line anyway,” he pleaded. “Who knows, maybe I can help?”

“Unless you know a way to remove bright magenta hair dye within an hour, I _hardly_ think you can, Fitz.”

“Oh!” He said brightly. “I do, actually! Job interviews prefer non-bingo-dobbed, Kool-Aided hair, surprisingly enough,” he chuckled.

Jemma slid to the bathroom tile in relief, the phone cradle slipping with a clatter as she clutched the handset to her ears, laughing in relief.

“Oh!” Her voice was thick with thankful tears.

“Hey,” He cooed into the phone. “It’s alrigh’ – it’s not hard, just very _wet_.”

Fitz suddenly realized how suggestively his remark could be read, and added quickly, “ – The solution! It’s wet! Not that _you_ are - but you will be. I mean, because you’ll be in the shower. Scrubbin’ away...”

“Bollocks.” He cringed and cleared his throat. “ Just uh, just please, forget that. You’ll, uh, you’ll need a few supplies first.”

Jemma nodded, completely uncomprehending his clumsy remarks. She wondered why relief wasn't flooding through her system. Instead, she just felt...sad. Like she was giving up something much more important than hair dye. Her throat felt tight, her nose stuffed, and her eyes welled with tears.

God, she felt so utterly _ridiculous_.

She sniffed hard, trying to hide her hiccoughing, tearful breaths with the back of her hand. She had been _so happy_ , if only for a few minutes.

“Hey, _hey, shhh_ ,” Fitz soothed through the phone. His voice dropped down an octave, rumbling softly. “We can fix this, easy-peasy… So why’re you cryin’?”

Jemma cradled her handset in the crook of her shoulder and pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. “I’m not. I’m fine,” she lied.

“I can hear you cryin’,” he said softly, twirling the phone cord between his fingers and leaning his forehead against the wall by the phone mount. “You know, it’s okay to cry. _It’s_ _alrigh’_. You’ve been through abit of an ordeal, it sounds like.”

Jemma scoffed and then insisted, “It’s _so_ silly. You’ll laugh at me, I’m _sure_ of it. And it would be _such_ perfect ammunition for you to take the piss - men like you always seem to -”

“- I’d never laugh at you,” Fitz confessed. “And those men that do are shit, anyways, really...”

His voice was warm and comforting, like her softest, most worn jumper - the merino one with the holes in the cuff. She could wrap herself up in it and fall asleep. “You wouldn’t? Really?”

"Really."

"...Promise?"

A tiny smile curved his lips as he answered, “ _Pinky_ promise.”

Sighing deeply, she ran her fingers through the bright strands.

Feeling shamefully frivolous, she said, “I was just... _happy_. I really loved it.” She sniffed, twirling a lock between her fingers and thumb. “I never do anything like this - not so _obvious,_ at least. I _finally_ felt -”

“-Like yourself?” Fitz finished for her.

“- _Yeah_ …” she breathed, dropping her head back as she swiped her forearm against her eyes. “It’s _ridiculous_ , I know, to let your outward appearance affect your sense of self so strongly. As if that identifier doesn’t go through constant shifts and changes - growth, hormones, illnesses, environmental stressors - it’s just a machine, after all, the human body. Just a machine. Nothing to get attached to. _So_ _silly_ of me.”

“You know, World War Two fighter pilots, they used to paint designs on the fuselage of their planes. Like shark teeth, or pin-up girls. They’d even name ’em - Girls’ names, mostly - ‘li’l miss Pick Up’, or “Betty Bomber”, that kind of thing.” He twirled the phone cord around his wrist, playing with it absentmindedly.

“They were just machines too - an engine and a casin’, some wheels - just made to serve a purpose. But these fighter pilots, see, they knew - every machine isn’t just a piece of metal and wirin’. It’s another expression of the person who designed ‘er, an extension of the person operatin’ ‘er - like another limb. So these pilots, they made it their own. They individualized ‘em with names and with paint, and they put a little of themselves in the machine - gave it a soul. Let theirs shine through it, a bit.”

Fitz cleared his throat, trying to figure out a way to make his point without being cheesy. “So what I’m tryin’ to say is, your hair, it’s kind of like that. It’s okay to be sad to see it go.”

She nodded into the phone, running her fingertips down the coiled cord.

“...Thank you.” She sounded strangely vulnerable, her voice so small. She grimaced, berating herself silently.

“So what do I need to get to fix it?” she asked with a false push, trying to regulate her voice back to business-as-usual.

“You ever make one of those baking soda and vinegar volcanoes?”

Jemma knocked her forehead with the heel of her hand. “Of _course_ ,” she groaned. “Why didn’t I think of that? The sodium bicarbonate -”

“- lifts the color off the follicle -”

“-And the vinegar is a chelating agent,”

“- stripping the colour build-up, yeah.”

Jemma laughed in relief. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of that!”

“Well, you were in a _bit_ of a tizzy,” Fitz said.

Jemma laughed a little on her end of the line, and Fitz decided to try to push his luck a little further. “You’ll need one more thing, too.”

“What?”

“A polaroid camera - I need to see what this magenta-haired, Alterna-Jemma looks like,” he teased. “And maybe you can even keep a photo, for posterity. Hide it in your mattress slats, or in a wall safe behind an expensive portrait or somethin’, for when you need to remember yourself,” Fitz chuckled.

“That’s not a half-bad idea,” Jemma’s mouth somehow edged into a smile.

“I’ll have you know the _only_ ideas I have are good ones!” He pretended to sound affronted, but she could hear the grin in his voice.

“Thank-you, Fitz.” Jemma smiled, biting her thumb affectionately. “For helping me. I never expected you to be _so_ …”

She trailed off, the silence strung taut between them.

“...That’s me," he said after she'd trailed away. "Always doin’ the unexpected,” he chuckled awkwardly.

“ _Indeed_ ,” Jemma breathed. “Goodbye, Fitz.”

“Good night and good luck.” Before she hung up, he added in a rush, “Callagainifyouneed!  With an update, or if you want to talk, or anythin’.”

“Good night, Fitz,” Jemma murmured warmly.

“Good night.” The phone clicked, and the line was dead. “- Jemma.”

Letting the handset drop to his chest, Fitz rolled his back against the wall, stared up at the ceiling, and sighed.

 

 

* * *

 

 

I meant to add this to chapter 4, but I forgot! So here he is, drummer Fitz in all his glory!

 

Jemma's hair!!


	6. Want

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jemma has trouble sleeping, these days. Fitz has trouble writing, and Lance has a great idea, just days before the Nightsticks very first gig.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, there is SMUT!!!
> 
> The beginning of this chapter is VERY NSFW! So be aware of that, folks...
> 
> As always, huge thanks to Pi for the beta, and to my roomie for blushing *super* hard while reading Jemma's scene, just to let me know I'd done it right.

 

* * *

 

It had been two weeks.

Two weeks since Jemma Simmons had broken the rules. Two weeks since she'd gone off book, since she'd tried to riff on the rehearsed direction of her rote life. Two weeks since she'd talked to Fitz, really talked to him, and had admitted to herself that she'd been wrong about him - one of the very few times in her life her hypothesis had been incorrect. She couldn't peg him down, for the life of her. He didn't make sense. He didn't fit into her schema of understanding. He was.. _._ interesting.

He was like one of those fiddly reagents, one of those delicate and complex chemical combinations that seemed to recombine upon every observation.

Since that night, she'd begun to refer to her life as two distinct eras - Jemma BC ( _Before Colour_ ) and Jemma AD ( _After Dye_ ). Though outwardly she might be the same, for some reason, inside herself, she could feel the gears shifting. It left her restless and ill at ease, as if she were on the climb of a roller coaster, inching up too slowly and just waiting to surge forward, for her stomach to drop through the floor, to rocket, breakneck, into the arms of some unknowable future.

All she knew was that her tiny, aborted act of rebellion wasn't enough. Like licking up the melted dregs of ice-cream, it was delicious and thrilling but hardly satisfying.

She tossed and turned at nights, sleeplessly pulling the covers off her into a heap, throwing her leg up and over as she clutched at the formless shape with her arms. She hugged it close and wondered, absently, what it would be like to sleep next to someone. She'd had intimate relations previously, of course. For Jemma, it had been a biological function she'd undertaken with safety and a brisk sensibility that was at odds with the general idea of the thing in popular culture, but she'd never felt the need to indulge in anything past the perfunctory twenty minutes of cuddling required.

She ground her hips down into the soft give of the blankets and growled tepidly, squeezing her eyes shut and trying to will herself to sleep despite the tension that was aching for relief. She buried her face in her blankets and expelled a frustrated breath.

Jemma was trying to school her mind towards the welcoming numbness of sleep, instead of puzzling over why she was so suddenly daydreaming about the tiny intimacies of murmured pillow-talk, of arms warm around her, of gently moving hands that never seemed to stop exploring her - stroking her hair, playing at the joint of her elbow, squeezing her thigh, dancing against her hip, pressing her chin up to catch a softly dropped kiss -

" _Aaarghhh_ ," Jemma groaned in frustration, finally giving in and rolling her hips sharply forward, only to groan with increased agitation as the pliant comforter shifted away at her weight.

Rolling over, hand slapping frustratedly at the mattress, Jemma puffed out an exasperated breath of air, billowing her bangs back into her eyes.

She could understand the science behind her psychological shift - the restless drive toward change  was simple entropy. It was more than psychology, it was biological even, this deep imperative to reach a thermodynamic equilibrium, to find a balance between who she had been and who she was becoming. But _why_ that restless disorder had to be accompanied by such an increased sex drive, she couldn't comprehend. It didn't make any logical sense. Perhaps it was simply the pent up, unreleased energy she was building  as she waited on the edge of her life?

Whatever the catalyst for this symptom, it had rapidly increased the rate of her self-stimulation. Jemma pondered her situation with a grumble, stacking her pillows behind her so she could lean back comfortably.

She normally only masturbated once or twice a week, but ever since Jemma AD, she'd been stunned to find her biological imperative pushing her to masturbate every day... _Or more_ , Jemma thought to herself, considering her current predicament. She had gotten into a routine, since this sudden increase in her libido, of getting herself off once before bed, but tonight it just didn't seem to have done the trick. She was a bundle of sensitive nerves below.

Leaning back, she stretched into the pillows with a soft shake and snapped her eyes shut. "Well then," Jemma muttered to herself with a clinical dispassion, "On to round two."

When Jemma touched herself, her fantasies were not populated by local characters. Instead, it was often movie stars or musicians or other actors that had caught her fancy. Matthew Broderick, John Cusack, that sort of thing. As she came closer and closer to reaching orgasm, however, the distinction of who they were would fade into a haze, until when her body shuddered under her ministrations, the casting sheet might as well have read ' _non-descript, symmetrical male lead #1_ '.

Slowly, she licked her lips, letting her hand drift over the cotton of her tshirt. It drifted against her collarbone, toward her breast, as her mind spun an attractive setting for her fantasy.

 _Perhaps a secluded dock on a lake in the country?_ A lone siren sounding down below shattered that picturesque idea.

 _Hmmm_ , she thought, hitching her knees up in a soft bend - _somewhere... closer, maybe?_ Her lab? _No, too many windows ._

 _Maybe_ \- her breath caught in her throat as an image lodged itself in her brain. The soft sensation of her finger-tips against her cotton-clad breast made it tingle with warmth as the fantasy slowly took form.

_It's the pub's back room, darkened, like it's night, and the raucous sounds of the band and the people are hazing together, softened by the locked door. The stacked boxes of liquor and the dim humming of fridges drown out everything but the sensation..._

Jemma imagined a disembodied hand ghosting softly against her nipple - _No_ _,_ she thought, suddenly dragging her hand back up and grasping roughly at her breast. She imagined hands calloused from hard work pinching her nipple hard and pulling it taut as the man attached to it pressed hot at her back, pushing her forward against the cool of the metal shelves.

Her other hand splayed itself against her ribs, sliding down over the softness of her stomach, mimicking the hand in her fantasy. It’d tingle as his arm wreathed around her side -

_The muscles of his forearm contract. His tattoos look like a dark and dappled shoreline as his fingers work fervently at the button of her jeans. He leans down, his breath ruffling hot and moist against her neck, maddening and soft and driving her crazy._

_His lips slide wet and dizzying behind her ear. He nuzzles his stubbled jaw against her cheek, roughing up the sensitive skin, sparking her nerve endings as he nips at her ear. He plays teasingly at the elastic of her panties, just the tips of his fingers dipping millimeters beneath, making her whine needfully._

_His chuckle is deep and throaty and knowing._

Jemma slid her fingers down into her panties, between her thighs. Her fingers swept along the wetness there, and she caught her bottom lip between her teeth, cutting off a tiny whimper.

_He draws his hand back up, burning like a brand against her mons. Desperately, she tilts her hips upwards, bleating as her body quivers at the fleeting pressure and friction against her clit. He pulls his hand away to just under her belly button and tightens his grip, pulling her against him hard. She can feel the outline of his thick, stiff cock against her jeans, and he growls low and quiet as he grinds up against the cleft of her ass. Pushing her hair out of the way with one hand, he plants  a sucking kiss at the nape of her neck that soon turns into a love bite._

_His teeth are sharp and his tongue is soft and his breath curls against her skin, and she is hot and wet and sparking fire. Like a wire stripped of its casing, she’s electric - she could burn up from these teasing touches alone._

_“I won’t do it, not until you ask.” His brogue is a gentle murmur, at odds with his treatment of her body. He holds her firm, playing her thrumming skin, her heart beat, like a tin-pan drum._

_She shakes her head, too full up of feeling to form words - too unsure of what she wants from him to know what to ask for._

Jemma’s fast moving fingers still against her folds. She’d never fantasized dialogue, really.Through the feverish haze of lust clouding her brain, she managed a thought: the voice she was thinking of was familiar - maybe a new actor she’d seen in a program? She dragged two fingers against the side of her clit and hitched a high and excited breath. The tension was tangling so tight within her that she hardly cared anymore - not about who it was, not about any of it.

She licked her lips and drifted back into the fantasy.

_“Ask for what you want.” His skillful fingers finally slide lower again, catching her sensitive bundle of nerves and making her knees quake. He tightens his grip around her waist, taking more of her weight as he cajoles her. “Tell me what you want me to do to you, Jemma. I want to hear you say it.”_

An unguarded moan escapes Jemma’s lips, and she was suddenly glad that her room was at the back of the house and that it was well past midnight, so no one could hear the pornographic sounds she wasn’t able to contain. She exhaled sharply, bringing her palm down against the hand working inside her, building the pressure to a fever-pitch.

_“...I want,” she sucks in a shaky breath, “you to...uunghh - to touch me.”_

_He drops a barely-there kiss to the juncture of her throat and her shoulder. “I am touchin’ you.”_

_She lets out a frustrated whimper, craning her head to capture his lips, drawing his head down to hers with her fingers brushing tantalizingly against the buzzed sides of his mohawk._

Jemma thrust two fingers inside herself, unable to breathe for a second.

_He slides the single finger out of her, circling her clit with it, and draws back, grinning against her skin as she mewls._

_“I want... your fingers...  in-inside me,” she whispers,  gasping as he drives two fingers in. He surges forward against her, pinning her against the shelf as she begins to pulse and thrum. There’s a current of live energy running through her body, perilously searching for ground._

_His hand finds its way into her hair, his fingers tangling as they clutch and pull. She turns towards him, responding to him, to his roughness._

_His lips slant her mouth open. His tongue is insistent, and she moans against his mouth. Their kiss is deep and urgent, a fiercely connective thing._

_Her breath puffs out in quicker and quicker pants, the tangle of her nerves knotting tighter and tighter, drawing inward with each expert drag of his fingers against her g-spot. The press of his palm against her clit shifts slightly and a breathy keen escapes her open mouth as the explosive threads of her orgasm light, bursting out in a firework of pleasure. She can't help the tiny wail that escapes as she comes -_

“Oooh, Fitz!”

She suddenly snapped her eyes open as her orgasm crested into a second, high burst.

Her body shuddered as she lay sweating, catching her breath. With her hands still in her panties, Jemma realized that she’d just had the most amazing orgasm of her life while fantasizing about her brother’s drummer.

“Oh bloody hell,” Jemma groaned, rolling over to bury her face in her pillow.

* * *

 

 

“Alright Turbo,” Mack called from the sink, shutting off the tap. “I’m closing up.”

The tall man poked his head through the door to the office (and Fitz’s make-shift bedroom). He pointed to a scattered stack of papers near the edge of the drafting table. “Hey, you found the scholarship application forms. Great! I know most of ‘em have an internship or a company contract stipulation, but I think, you know, a few years of your life - it’s worth it isn’t it? Get that Ph.D you’ve been working for, be a real engineer, not just some mechanic, like me, workin’ for pennies.”

“Yeah, not for pennies, just The Man,” Fitz spun on the wheeled stool, an application form in his hand. “Stark industries - Defense contractin’ with a three year work stipulation.”

He plucked another one from the stack. “Roxxon industries, a five year work commitment’ and paten’ control. The rest aren’t much different, only none of those are quite enough to cover what I need,” Fitz sighed in aggravation. “I know you’re tryin’ to help Mack, but these…”

“It’s not like you’re being asked to sell your soul, bud,” Mack shrugged. “I just thought, you know, a few years? It’s not such a big deal.”

“I know. And I understand, and I appreciate it, but I can’t work for these people. I don’t want my designs responsible for the deaths of millions of people, and I don’t want my best work owned by shady corporations like these. I’d rather just keep on here, to be honest.”

“Hey, it’s your life, it’s your choice.” Mack shrugged. “You’ve just got so much going for you, I hate to see you waste it here.” He pointed to the walls, filled with sketches and Fitz’s neat hand describing the details of each blue-print. “Ain’t nobody but me gonna see these beauties. I just think it's a shame.”

Fitz shrugged, rolling his shoulders forward, closing himself off. “Yeah. I know.” He dropped his head forward, guiltily. He didn’t look up to meet Mack’s eyes. “I’ll think about it. I promise.”

“Well, I’m gonna lock up anyways.”

Fitz waved and looked back down at the much folded, much scrawled paper on the drafting table in front of him. It wasn’t a new design, or an application form. It was a song.

 

 

>  

It was band homework, really. They needed at least one original song for the gig, and Lance had begged him and Trip at the end of the last practice to put pen to paper and write.

_“Something smashing, lads! Something with some pow! and maybe a little political? Or something about shagging. Either or, really. Just get some words down - we’ll arrange it next time.”_

Their next practice was tomorrow, and the gig was the day after, and he had more scratched out lines than anything else. Plus, Lance was their singer, and there was no way he’d shed the spotlight to let their drummer sing lead. Nor would he want to sing a song about how Fitz was getting a bit of a crush, even if it was ever so small, on his kid sister. Not that Fitz’d tell him that, of course.

And it wasn’t as if he even really knew her. One real conversation, that was all. He wasn’t even certain he could get up the gumption to say the words he’d written. Anyways, it was just romantic nonsense, wasn’t it? And what if she came out to the show? It wouldn’t do.

“S’crap, anyway,” he muttered, crumpling the paper into a ball and flinging it towards the trash.

* * *

 

“You’ll think of something.  You always manage to pull it out of your ass somehow,” Bobbi chuckled, grinning against Lance’s lips.

He cocked his head to side and gave her a shit-eating grin.

Groaning, she rolled out from under him and onto the floor, her knee connecting with a discarded notebook. She picked it up as she stood. “And don’t say _‘that’s what he said’_.”

 _“ Ahh! Ah hahaha!_ _”_ Lance laughed, his shoulders shaking.

Bobbi threw the book at his face. “You are so juvenile.”

“Ow! Bob! Come on, that’s what you love about me!”

Bobbi just cocked a disbelieving eyebrow and gathered her coat and purse. “...Sure.”

Lance scrambled off the couch to see her out, clutching the notebook in his hand. “No, no! Come on, I can be mature! I am mature!- I am a serious artist, Bob.”

Bobbi grinned, fisted her hand into his threadbare t-shirt, and pulled him in for an affectionate kiss. “Sure. I guess we’ll see when you perform that scorching political anthem you’re gonna write for this Saturday, huh?”

“ _Pshhh_ ,” Lance shrugged. “I mean, I _suppose_ , if you can comprehend that whole movement. You and your working for the American government and all. Sort of the _worst_ of that whole lot, aren’t you?”

“Your country is run by Margaret Thatcher.”

“And _yours_ is run by _Reagan_!”

“...Fine. It’s a draw.” She smiled, pressing her lips against his languidly. Their tongues teased playfully against each other as they kissed.

Finally, after another few minutes of snogging at the open door, Lance pushed her away. “Get out of here, American Woman.”

Bobbi laughed and backed out of the apartment. “Wrong genre, babe,”

When she left, he shut the door, slapping the notebook against his hand and trying desperately to think of something anthemic and political for The Nightsticks’ first official original song. He’d already spied on Trip’s. It was all _'_ _hey, brown-eyed girl who likes to kiss other girls, I’d like to kiss you , too_ _’_ which, _yeah_ , fine - it’s _good_ _,_ but it wasn’t some polemic against the capitalist dogs driving them all into the ground through, like, _oppression_ , and such.

So it was down to him, really. He had to be the one to write it. Maybe like, an open letter to Margaret Thatcher?

“ _‘Dear Margaret Thatcher - Fuck off and die, bitch’_ is just a line, innit? It’s not a whole song…” He mused, flopping back down onto the couch.

He flipped the notebook open to a random page, ready to start writing, when he realized what the notebook actually was - Jemma’s journal.

Jemma’s highly political, extraordinarily articulate, perfectly vociferous, left-wing, anti-establishment journal, filled with article tidbits for the zine, chemical formulae, musings, boring science notes, and little bits about her feelings and things.

Basically, it was punk rock songwriting solid _gold_.

“Right,” he said, nodding his head as he licked his thumb and flipped through. “This is a great idea.”


	7. Complete Control (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the day of the Nightstick's first show, and the boys are at the pub, setting up and doing sound-check. Meanwhile, it's been all of a day since Jemma's somewhat revealing...private moment, but she's a good sister, and with Skye at her side, what could go wrong, really?
> 
> ...Just ask Lance. He'll tell you what could go wrong. In fact, he ends up walking in on 'what could go wrong'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to Pi for the beta, and most especially the master manip of Jemma's outfit, which she frankenstiened together, incredibly!!

 

 

“Are you sure it looks alright?”

Jemma tugged uncomfortably at the hem of her exceedingly short tartan kilt. Underneath it was a short black crinoline Skye had loaned her, and overtop she wore her _Typical Girl EP_ t-shirt with the band members of The Slits in strict bas relief. The sleeves of the baggy tshirt had been cut off, and the arm-holes dipped far down to her waist. The deep openings showed off the lacy, stop-light-red bra Skye had talked her into wearing underneath.

“Yes, for the fourth time, it looks slammin’. I still think you should get rid of the blazer, but it’s your life.” Skye had caved to modesty somewhat, allowing Jemma to shrug on a black blazer, which effectively tamed down the outfit to something Jemma could wear without blushing profusely.

When they had gotten to the Queen Victoria (named in honour of both the former British monarch and the particular Victoria who had the title of Queen in Izzy's own life) they’d made a beeline for the loo. They encamped in a stall together, much to the amusement of the other women - a few of whom were making vocal mention of just what activities they might be engaging in, and inquiring whether they needed help undressing. They’d joked through the stall for a few minutes, and then the other women had filtered out, leaving them the empty, much-graffitied ladies room.

Jemma looked down at the combat boots she’d had to stash at Lance’s flat, and then, once more, at the sheer tininess of her school-girl-esque kilt. There was barely an inch of it hanging outside the baggy t-shirt when it was untucked, and the crinoline pushed it out and up, making it seem even shorter.

Jemma pressed it down experimentally, watching it poof back up in the mirror. “Are you sure you can’t see my pants?”

Skye was perched on the edge of the sinks, hair-spraying her high, teased bangs. “Gimme a twirl?”

Jemma obediently did so.

“Lift your arms up over your head?”

Jemma again, did as she was told.

“Face away from me and bend over?”

Jemma grabbed a discarded scrunchie from the counter and threw it at Skye with a rueful eyebrow raise and a somewhat less tense half-smile. “Cheeky.”

“But, and here’s the good part of this - at least you aren’t!”

Jemma groaned and rolled her eyes at the terrible pun.

Skye jumped off the sink and strode over. She tucked a portion of the tshirt hem into Jemma’s kilt. “There. It’ll make you feel like there’s more of it. Plus, it shows off your little waist.”

She continued to adjust Jemma’s outfit, rolling the cuffs of her blazer up, and then teased some height into the crown of Jemma’s hair with her fingers. “Just remember,” she said, counting the items off on her fingers. “You look great; your butt’s not showing; you’re wearing your favourite boots; and we’re going to listen to some not-terrible music, and maybe get hit on. It’s a win-win situation.”

She tossed a reassuring arm around Jemma’s shoulder as she wheeled her out of the bathroom. “Plus, while you’re all worried about your teeny-tiny skirt, you’re not gonna have time to worry about what to say to Fitz when you see him again, after that whole hair snafu.”

Jemma, who had been busy patting down her kilt and crinoline, suddenly jerked her head up. “What?”

“Which is now,” Skye said in an aside before bursting out sunnily, “Hey Fitz!”  and diving blindly toward where Trip stood at the bar.

“Hi. Hello - hey,” Fitz stuttered, his eyes wide. He’d been on his way to the loo himself, but after catching a glance at her over his shoulder, he’d pivoted to an awkward stop.

Jemma’s own eyes widened in shock, and she nervously wiped her hands down her tartan one more time, wishing silently that it would just go flat. Unfortunately, her wish did not come true.

Fitz’s adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he gulped, watching her skirt bounce perkily back up. He swallowed a groan and shifted his crotch slightly toward the shadows, hoping that Jemma wouldn’t notice that her skirt wasn’t the only thing perking up, so to speak.

She shoved her hand out in front of her and plastered on a bright, tight smile. “Hello Fitz! You’re here early -”

“-Settin’ up and doin’ sound check -”

“Can’t imagine Lance fiddling with the wires and such -”

“-Makin’ sure the levels are good, and the sound board’s alrigh’-”

“-seem quite handy doing that sort of -”

“Used to be an engineerin’ major, but it all just comes natural-”

“- easy I suppose? Lance mentioned you worked -”

“As a mechanic, yeah. I do that. And odd bits fixin’ things here and there - work for Izzy sometimes, too.”

Fitz kept sneaking glances at her as he fiddled with the cuff of his rolled up sleeve.

Jemma’s eyes followed his movements, watching as he balled up his hands into fists and shoved them into the pockets of his jeans. Her gaze slipped to the button, and an image from the previous night’s fantasy flashed through her brain.

A sudden flush painted her cheeks and she gulped, wrenching her gaze back to his face.

_It’s nothing,_ she instructed her brain. _Absolutely a normal occurrence. When hormones shift and when faced with important and impactful decisions, one’s subconscious wanders down - uncommon paths. It’s quite helpful for the ego to be …. engaged in other pursuits. Completely natural, nothing to overthink, or to read into._ He was the newest factor added to her life, and based on her research, it was inevitable, really, that he’d find his way into her fantasies or her dreams at night. And honestly, who else was she supposed to think about at a critical juncture of her life like this? Sunil?

_I hardly think so_ , Jemma mused, watching the way Fitz scratched absently at the tawny stubble on his cheek.

He ought to say something.

It was bad manners to stare, he knew, but here she was with her hands clutching the hem of her skirt and her expression seeming more and more unsure - uncomfortable in the silence. Quickly, he glanced away, missing the blush that coloured her cheeks as he fidgeted in front her, desperate to find some common ground to speak on, something that might end this strained silence.

He snuck a glance up, under his lashes, before looking back to the ground, scuffing his shoes against the concrete floor of the hallway. “Your hair - It looks nice,” he said a bit lamely.

Jemma’s mouth dropped into a surprised ‘O’. She quickly brought her hands up to smooth the strands by her face, before breaking out into a smile.

“Thanks,”she replied, just as awkwardly. She stared at her boots, studiously keeping her eyes off his hands.

“Oh!” She cried suddenly, bending over a bit to dig through the purse at her hip. She didn’t realize how the crinoline made the skirt ride up slightly, granting tiny glimpses of skin through the black, gauzy layers of the poofy underskirt.

Fitz pleaded desperately with Our Lady of Lourdes (Patron saint of bodily ills), St. Jude (patron saint of desperate causes - and if this wasn’t a desperate situation, Fitz was at a loss to qualify what was), and Mother Mary, Queen of Heaven herself, to keep the problem quickly cropping up in his pants underwraps.

Abruptly, Jemma straightened up and thrust a stiff piece of paper into his chest. “Speaking of hair,” she said, her eyes sliding away hastily as he caught her gaze.

He reached up - it was a polaroid, taken in the mirror of what must be her bathroom. She was wearing a purple-stained tank top with her magenta hair falling messily over one eye and a hopeful smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. Her eyes were dark and smoky, and seemed mismatched against the wide, unguarded gaze that stared back at him.

Fitz snuck a glance at the girl across from him. taking in her highly held, tense shoulders, the firm set of her mouth, her hesitant eyes. “You look different,” he blurted, then berated himself silently. He cast up a fervent prayer to St. Francis Borgia (patron saint of earthquakes) that the ground beneath him might swallow him whole.

His prayer went unanswered.

Quickly, seeing her wary eyes shutter in front of him, he scrambled for something to say. “Not _bad_ different, just -” He waved an ineffectual hand in the general direction of her hair. “... _different_.”

Since she didn’t reach for the photo back, he quickly stuck it in the pocket of his jeans and then raked a hand through his strip of unglued curls, feeling at once over-warm and restless.

“Thanks,” he hazarded a smile in her direction.

Jemma’s eyes lit on the path of his hands again, and she could literally feel the heat rising along the back of her neck and unfurling against her cheeks as he caught her gaze. He looked confused and concerned.

“Are you feelin’ alrigh’, Jemma?”

“Of course!” she responded, far more forcefully than she’d intended. She made motions to laugh, but her breath caught in her throat as she suddenly comprehended that, when not glued into a razor-straight edge, his hair curled into tight, soft-looking ringlets that fell against his brow in a startlingly appealing way.

“You just look a bit flushed, is all,” he continued with a look of mild concern.

Jemma waved his statement away over-animatedly. “It’s just getting crowded - this blazer just traps heat. Polyester. Horrid fabric,” she stated jerkily, grabbing the lapels and holding the coat open wide.

A flash of sweltering red captured Fitz’s eye as her blazer flapped back down. “Oh.” He nodded quickly, gulping. “Okay.”

“Your hair,” Jemma began, pointing to the unfortunate mop of curls that decorated his forehead. He grimaced.

“Erm, yeah,” he coloured along the bridge of his nose. “I got busy with the electronics, and I meant to do it earlier, but that’s why I’m headin’ to the toilet. Though I don’t know how good it’ll turn out with only ten minutes -”

“-do you want a hand?” Jemma offered quickly. “You know, in exchange for your assistance with my own hair problem?”

_That was it. That would do it._ She was sure of it. By getting out of his debt, he’d no longer weigh on her mind, and she’d be free to fantasize once more about, oh, Kiefer Sutherland, or James Spader, or someone or other.

“ - _Yeah_ ,” He found himself saying, “yeah, yeah. Okay. Alrigh’.” He realized how rapidly he was nodding, and stopped abruptly.

He shrugged with faux nonchalance. “I mean, if you want to, that’d be alrigh’.”

A bright smile lit her features, drawing out a shy, pleased grin from him in return.

* * *

 

Practicality was part of Jemma Simmon’s nature. If a solution was obvious and convenient, she would apply it. Typical conventions of behaviour played little into her need to unravel problems with elegant, simple solutions. And if she foresaw a remedy to a problem, she would administer the cure, regardless of the hesitancy of the patient.

When presented with a task, Jemma would take it upon herself to complete it with a voracious thoroughness that some might say bordered scarily on obsessive-compulsiveness. When challenged, her laser focus reduced distractions to a minimum, with little consideration for anything but achieving her goal. It was what made her such a dedicated scientist, such a stalwart searcher for the truths that underpinned the universe, and such an incredibly terrifying creature when that exacting industriousness was applied to oneself.

And that was why Leo Fitz was sitting on a toilet in the stall of the men’s loo with his arms tucked up against his chest like he was somehow guarding himself against impropriety, while Jemma Simmons stood precariously on her tip-toes with a tube of wood-glue in her hand, and a consternated look on her face.

“At this distance, when the front of your mohawk reaches its optimal length, I won’t be able to reach the back to spike it out appropriately.” Jemma craned her head to the other side, mentally calculating the possibilities. “And even if I begin at the back, due to my height and frankly dismally proportionate arm-length, I’m certain I’ll still lack reach.”

Jemma expelled a determined puff of air. “Well, there’s nothing for it. I’ll need to shorten the distance,” she decided, clearing her throat as she shuffled forward, accidentally jostling his knee with hers. She overcorrected, her ankle pivoting dangerously to the left, upending her balance -

“-Oops,”Fitz blurted, upon realizing that his hands had ended up firmly gripping the backs of her thighs.

He had only meant to keep her upright as she found her footing, and now here she was, straddling him - _basically_. He was nose to nose with the t-shirt version of Ari Up (scowling at him) as he gulped and emphatically did _not_ think about how he was less than an inch away from Jemma Simmon’s perfect breasts, or how she smelled like coconut and fresh laundry, or how her thumb had brushed against his earlobe as she’d clutched blindly at the nape of his neck to steady herself against him.

He dropped his burning hands and stared fiercely at a square of discarded toilet paper on the far end of the stall.

“S-sorry,” she stuttered, brushing her hand down the juncture of his neck and shoulder as she let him go, the path of her fingers trailing gooseflesh along his skin. He suppressed a shiver.

She could still feel the warmth of his hands imprinted on the backs of her thighs and marvelled to herself at the heat of his skin, clenching and unclenching her hand to dissipate the excess temperature.

“S’my fault,” he said, pulling back, arms braced behind him to press into the toilet seat. “Didn’t want to touch you like that.”

“... _Oh,_ ” Jemma’s shoulders fell. “Of course not,” she replied brusquely, nodding quickly with a tight, business-like smile.

Had he said something wrong? “I was just tryin’ to steady you,” he tried to explain.

Jemma nodded rapidly, and pushed a strand of hair behind her ears. “I understand. I never dreamed -”

“-I’m not one of those handsy blokes, I swear -”

“-In your personal space-”

“-You’re really kind to help -”

“-I know it’s uncomfortable, but -”

“-s’fine, really, more than -”

“-be done in a jiffy, I just need to -”

“-close as you need, you just put me where you need me -”

“-another inch or so forward -”

Fitz leaned back against the water tank. While his stubbled chin tilted upwards, his eyes tracked along the length of Jemma’s throat without meaning to.

Their eyes met and their words died quietly in their mouths. Jemma, cautiously, moved even closer, her hand fluttering lightly, like a bird against his shoulder.

Biting her bottom lip unconsciously, she brought her hand up to cup the side of his head, thumb tentatively sweeping against his temple, her fingertips moving against the grain of his hair, tingling dizzily against his scalp.

He unconsciously leaned into her touch, his eyes dropping closed, a tiny, blissful sigh escaping.

She had no idea what possessed her, but without meaning to, she found her hand carding through the baby softness of his tight curls, rubbing her thumb in broad circles against his shorn sides. He was pressing into her palm like a cat.

Something caught in her chest and her heart stutter-stopped.

Guiltily, she snapped her half-open mouth shut and brusquely reached for the cap of the wood glue. "Right," she muttered to herself.

* * *

 

"Just lean back, Fitz!"

That was Jemma’s voice, he was sure of it.

“I’m as far back as I can go - You need to get closer,” came the grunted reply of the drummer.

From where he stood frozen in the corridor, Lance could hear the rustling of clothes and a sharp intake of breath as something smashed against the side of a stall.

“Sorry,” came Fitz’s strangled voice. “Didn’t mean to be so abrupt, just - ‘m an engineer, and the angle was off and -”

“-You were just getting me into the right position. It’s fine, really, it didn’t hurt that much - though I might be walking funny for a touch,” Jemma’s laugh was pitched oddly and trailed off, a touch breathless.

Lance’s face drained of colour.

“...I didn’t hurt you, did I?” Fitz’s voice was concerned.

“Not really - I mean your hands were already there.” Sounds of fumbling filtered out into the corridor. “Let’s just, carry on, shall we? We were nearly done and I’d hate to send you out without finishing.”

“-Might be easier if-”

“-I get on my knees. Quite right.”

_Oh no -_ Lance burst through the door to the men’s room, shouting in a strained voice, “ _That’s my kid sister_!”

Jemma leaned back on her heels, using her elbows to support her as she craned her head around the open stall door. Her hands were covered in a sticky, white substance.

Her eyebrows were furrowed in bafflement. “I know I’m not supposed to be in the men’s loo, but I was just helping Fitz out with a small problem he was having.”

Lance’s feet didn’t seem to be listening to him. Neither did his arms or his hands, or come to think of it, his mouth, as  he half-stumbled closer, waving his arms akimbo, his mouth gawping silently at his sister’s uncharacteristic behaviour.

Finally, he creaked, “He’s got two hands, _doesn’t he? He can handle it himself!_ ”

“There just really wasn’t time for that. I know it’s unconventional for me, but there’s a first time for everything. And you know how much I love learning new things, and it’s a skill I’m sure I’ll put to use again at some point. I mean - it really could have been anybody, but it needed to done, and honestly we’re nearly finished, so if you’ll just...excuse us? It’ll only be a moment,” Jemma’s head disappeared behind the stall door again, and the sounds of sucking and squelching resumed.

“How can _you - what are you -?! I - NO! JEMMA YOU DON’T HAVE TO DO THIS!_ ” Lance cried, tearing his feet from the spot where they seemed to be rooted, and skidding around the corner to face the open stall. “YOU DON’T HAVE TO - _Ssu...ssection_ the uh, the mohawk, so um, so….like that…”

“I think you’re going to need a new tube after this, Fitz,” Jemma commented, squeezing the container of wood-glue ineffectually. All that was released was a squelching, sucking sound as air was forced out. “I should be able to finish it, but don’t blame me if it starts falling apart on stage.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he murmured, reddening across his cheeks as Lance’s aghast face morphed into one of befuddled consternation.

Once Jemma was finished molding the last strip of Fitz’s curls into a sharp mohawked ridge, she turned to Lance, a look at once confused and disapproving flitting across her features. “You’re white as a sheet. Stage-fright?”

Lance made a noise that passed for something like agreement.

Jemma stood, Fitz’s hands carefully at her elbows to help her balance without the use of her glue-coated hands.

“How do I...?” she began, wiggling her sticky fingers in front of her.

Lance slung a brotherly arm around her shoulder and marched her out of the men’s room. “See Izz behind the bar, she’ll pour some vodka out for you.  Just scrub it off and then wash as normal. Be out in two shakes, duck, just...stay there.”

“Oh...Okay?” She said as he shoved her down the hallway. Once she’d disappeared behind a clutch of people, he spun back around and confronted Fitz.

“WHAT THE HELL, FITZ?!” he shouted. “DID YOU FORGET ABOUT THE BROOM TALK?”

Fitz’s face grew redder. “No?” He half-stated, half-asked as he slid past Lance’s aggressive posturing. “And I’m not sure what you’re insinuatin’?”

“She’s my - If you….” Lance bit his words off and stuck a finger into Fitz’s chest. “Just hair?”

Fitz nodded. “Yeah. Just hair. _Obviously_.”

The finger that was painfully poking into Fitz’s chest morphed into a heavy pat. “Alright. Alright. Good. Keep it that way,” Lance said, turning on his heel.

“Sound check in two, by the by, Fitzy-boy.”

_It’s not like a girl like that would be interested in some couch-surfin’, broke, odd-job doin’ punk like me anyways_ , Fitz thought, staring at his mohawk in the mirror and remembering the way her hands had felt molding it.

_She'd probably go for guys like Trip - all tall and muscular and handsome, not some reedy, awkward short bloke. And I could barely get two words out with her so close, and then - I was bossy, wasn't I? She probably hates that._

He sighed deeply, rolled his shoulders forward, and shoved his hands in his pockets, scuffing his shoes against the floor as he trudged out.

 

* * *


	8. Complete Control (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance contemplates what it is he just walked in on, and what it means for his little sister, Jemma.
> 
> Finally on stage, the band plays, and the lads debut a new song, Lance's scorching political anthem about the war on the homefront - a song entitled (Jemma's) Dilemma. 
> 
> Suffice to say, at least one listener in the crowd is not pleased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge ups to Pi for some fantastic line/word additions to round out the feel of the chapter. It would not be half as good without her! Also, big thanks to Bookmole for reading and holding back tears.

 

* * *

 

 

It wasn’t that he had a problem with Fitz, not really. 

It wasn’t exactly unusual for his mates to harbour a crush. He knew Jemma was pretty. Usually, when it happened, he’d bring her round to the pub, set her up with a pint, and ask her about the latest developments at the lab.

Given the lubrication of alcohol, the incentive to elaborate on complicated biochemical processes, and the comfort of the regular crowd, Jemma would blather brilliant nonsense to such a degree that said mates would (following the initial excitement of a sit down conversation) realize that, if she granted them a moment to get a word in edgewise, they wouldn’t  _ actually _ know what to say. 

Inevitably, they would slide out of the booth on the pretense of grabbing another beer, and sidle up to some other bird and whisk them out of the pub, Jemma having barely batted an eyelash.

When he thought of Jemma, he didn’t ever really picture her matched up. In his head, she was married to science, to her work. She’d never really shown much interest -  _ real _ interest - in a bloke before. 

He supposed, if he  _ had  _ to picture her with anyone, he’d picture her with another scientist, someone with a Ph.D, or three. Mensa level. Someone brainy  who appreciated her, who would spend hours or days or months working out problems on blackboards or in beakers or whatever else science nerdy-birds did. 

He’d need to be a man of means.  She was used to a certain level of comfort, and she didn’t deserve to live hand to mouth like most folks these days. He’d need to be politically left-wing too, maybe even political himself.

Lance slipped passed a group, and squeezed behind the bar to where Jemma was giggling and cringing away from the splash of vodka over her hands.

_ Who’m I kidding? _ He thought. _ When I think of her, she’s five and in that yellow raincoat and wellies, collecting “specimens” in the pond, hands grimy with pondscum.  _ That was the first day he’d met her, (he’d always wanted to, since the first time he’d learned about her) and there she’d been, catching tadpoles. He’d jumped in, soaking his jeans, diving for frogs for her collection jars, just to see that big, bright grin. She was easy to love, that one, and he’d loved her right away. Ever since, he’d tried to be there for her, much as he could be, with Harcourt and Kensington and the world between them. He was always a bit clumsy at it, but he tried. Just like his mum had taught him.

“Now scrub, kid! Come on! It’s just some alcohol!” Izzy instructed, chuckling. 

Lance grabbed the bar cloth and the handsoap by the sink and reached between them to wipe at Jemma’s hands. “Wood glue’s a pain if you don’t get it clean right off.” He added, “But it does the trick.”

He cast a judgemental glance down at her skirt. “What on earth are you wearing? Was Madonna having a rummage sale?”

Jemma wrenched her hands back, wiping them hard against the tartan as she stared at her brother quizzically. “Are you insinuating something?”

“Just not really  ‘ _ you _ _’_ , is it? Not a good look either - makes your thighs look  enormous \- like huge, great white whales, aren’t they? Ahab -”

Izzy cuffed him hard against the back of his head. “You’re an asshole, Hunter. And also a terrible liar.”

“Alright, _ Alright _ _,_ no need to be violent -”

“No need to be a dick either, but hey, neither of us have ever been good at doing the needful thing.” Izzy cut in.

“I just don’t like the idea of my kid sister running around in a skirt the size of a handkerchief in a room full of lowlife punks, is all,” he whined plaintively.

“If I’d wanted your fashion advice or your overprotective concern, I would have asked for it,  _ wanker _ .” Jemma threw the bar cloth at his face. Her angry tone was belied somewhat by the amused curve at the corner of her mouth.

“You don’t have to ask for it. I’m you brother, I give my thoughts regardless. _O_ _ ccasionally _ in meter and in rhyme, accompanied by a wicked guitar solo.” He flashed her a cocky grin as he mimed wailing on his axe.

“Speaking of, don’t you have a show to put on that I’m definitely not paying you for after this?”

“Why yes, I think I do.” Lance bit, rubbing the fast-forming goose-egg that was knotting the back of his head.

“Ladies,” he sketched a hasty bow and exited the bar towards the stage. Fitz and Trip were already performing soundcheck.

Trip strummed away at his bass, turning his head from where he was tuning towards Lance’s approach. “Hey man. Skye’s here, and I’m pretty sure I saw Bobbi somewhere too.”

“Yeah, good turn out. Big crowd. I’m a bit surprised, actually,” Lance admitted, scanning the tightly packed tables and the people milling across the dance floor. 

The Queen Victoria wasn’t exactly what you’d call an upscale venue. More like a hole in the wall, or a good local dive, maybe. If you were being generous. 

The great majority of the walls had been given over to Vic’s sprawling street-art: sketchy graffiti with intricate patterns and designs, and intimate portraits of women kissing other women. They curved along balustrades and pillars, stretching from floor to ceiling. In the darkened room, under the black-light, the neon scrawl glowed, creating an atmosphere that called to punks, goths, art nerds, new romantics, and rudies, all of whom collided together here. 

The place was snug and comfortable during the day and approachable at night, but when bands played, it was like a liminal space marked out in spray paint and stage lights where anything could happen. There’d been numerous shouting matches, some fisticuffs - the cops had even been called in a time or two. It was that kind of place when the stage was lit up, and it felt that way tonight.

“Looks a bit rough out there,” Fitz remarked, noticing the baleful glares and shoulder brushes between some punks and a handful of mods that had taken up residence.

“Nothing to worry about,” Lance replied, swinging his guitar strap over his shoulder.

“So, who are you guys?” A feminine voice called from the corner. She was beautiful and slight, wearing a flower dress. “I’m Raina - a writer.  I’m doing a piece on the London scene.” 

Trip flashed her his most charming smile. “I got this one,” he told the boys, sauntering over towards her.

“You sure though? That there’s nothing to worry about?” Fitz questioned, drumming his sticks nervously against his thigh as his eyes scanned the close press of the crowd. “I mean, I know it’s usually alrigh’, but I heard about a punk show just this last week, where some twat threw a bottle at the stage an’ it missed. Hit a girl instead. Took her eye, I heard -”

Fitz took a step closer to where Lance was tuning up, his eyes glued to where Jemma, Izzy, and Skye were laughing by the bar. “And what with your li’l sister bein’ here and all, I was just thinkin’, it might be best if -”

“Why don’t you let  _ me _ worry about Jemma, Fitz,” Lance cut off, tightening the string he’d been fiddling with, and testing a few chord patterns. “She’s tougher than she looks, that one. Plus, we’re just the opening band. If it gets rowdy, I’ll whisk her out.”

He gave Fitz a measured look. “No need for you to worry your pretty little head about a thing.  _ Especially _ not what’s going to happen to my sister, alright? That clear enough for you?”

“Yeah, yeah, like crystal,” Fitz nodded, spinning his sticks nervously. He began walking back toward his drum kit before pivoting suddenly, “But she  _ does _ know where the exits are, just in case?”

“Fitz!” Lance cried, exasperated. “Forget about my baby sister for a minute, alright? You shouldn’t even be thinking it, mate.  It’s bad news.we’re in a band together! It’ll make it all hairy. Focus on the set instead, if you’ve got to focus your nerves anywhere.”

“The set, yeah. The set.” Fitz pulled out a folded paper from his back pocket. “About that - our last song, Dilemma? You finally got the lyrics down?”

“Yes. And they’re smashing. Political, personal, from the heart. Bob’s gonna love it. She’s gonna love it so much she’s gonna su-”

“Right” Fitz cut him off, not wanting to know what Bobbi was going to do. “Anyways, nothing’s changed in the instrumental arrangement?”

“Nope.”

“Fast-edged rock beat with the kick-drum bit?”

“Yeah,” Lance raised a hand to halt Fitz before he sat down at his kit. “Oh - and on the repeated words, just jump in.  It’s three Jemmas in the chorus, and five to close the song.”

“...Jemma’s?” Fitz’s head tilted uncomprehendingly to the side.

“Yeah, mate.” Lance jerked his chin up at Trip, signalling his need to pull away from the pretty brunette. 

“Well lads, let’s rock.” Lance stepped up to the mic and cleared his throat. 

Loud feedback screeched through the crowd as he stepped back, eyes wide and frightened. “Ss-sorry! So sorry about that. Um, This is our  uh , our first gig -erm, show?  _ Anyways . _ We, uh, we _ used _ to be called the Tits, which was a great band name, because who doesn’t like tits?”

A loud roar of applause drowned out Lance’s tangent, just long enough for his heart to settle into a thrumming, fast pace. He felt electrified, aware of everything, like he’d done the kind of drug you couldn’t find in a seedy bar toilet. He took a deep breath, and rode the adrenaline high.

“Tits are wonderful, aren’t they?” A second wave of agreement chorused back to him.

“And so are the women they’re attached to, so in a purely selfless move we’ve changed our name to the Nightsticks, and, uh, this is our first song. It’s an Elvis cover.” 

Lance glanced down at the row of pedals by his feet rather than looking at Bobbi where she was watching him from the bar. “We uh, we hope you like it.”

 

* * *

 

“Definitely a rocky start,” some girl with a flower dress leaned in close to Skye and Jemma, pointing with her beer. 

“But they kind of grow on you.  The bassist is _ incredible _ , and he’s not bad at guitar, either.” She chuckled lowly. 

Skye had turned to glare, ready to defend her territory, but was disarmed by the sultry curve of the other woman’s knowing smile. The girl in the flower dress was all smoky eyes and backroom promises. “I’m Raina, by the way,” she said, holding out her hand and looking up from beneath long lashes.

Jemma raised her eyebrows and tilted her head the side, silently asking if Skye wanted her to make a diversion or  give her some space to flirt. Skye flicked her gaze back to Raina, giving her an appraising look. She turned back to Jemma and shrugged.  _ Up to you _ , the look said.

Jemma held up her empty glass, and made a motion for the bar, waving to Skye as she passed. The band were just finishing their fourth song, and thankfully, Lance’s crowd-talk had improved significantly. She couldn’t quite make out his words as he introduced their last tune as she jostled forward to the bar. Something about it being an original.

“Another Bourbon Sour?” Vic shouted over the din, already fixing her another drink. Jemma nodded and smiled.

“-Finished the lyrics last night, so you’ll have to forgive us if it’s terrible. Truly, just cheer anyways. We’re new to this, so feel free to feed our egos a bit. It won’t do no harm.”

“Your ego’s already too fat to fit through the door, Hunter!” Izzy shouted, guffawing as he flipped her the bird.

“Watch it, Izzy Izz, or the next song I write’ll be about you,” he mock-threatened, his cocky smirk firmly in place.

The crowd laughed and Jemma grinned, passing the cash over the bar as the drums beat out a fast, driving rhythm. It reminded her a bit of the Ramones, a bit of the Clash, with some Stiff Little Fingers thrown into the mix. 

She found herself bopping her head along as she slipped through the crowd toward the front, her eyes following the intro of the drums. Fitz’s combat booted feet stomped out a mean beat against the kick drum, and his arms moved in a blur. 

> __ “ Raised on Star Wars, science, and Reagan,   
>  Know her place, save some face, Mind her station   
>  Under the heel of Margaret Thatcher   
>  What's he gonna do when he catch her   
>  Chemistry unites the bonds of the classes    
>  Riots in Brixton scare the bourgeois off their asses - ”

The glare of stage lights refracted against the high hat at each pass, and Jemma found herself mesmerized by the tiny, glistening drops of sweat that were beading against Fitz’s forehead. One gathered slowly, getting larger, until with a swift rachet of his head to the side, it slid fast down his brow and fell off the tip of his nose onto his bottom lip. Fitz’s tongue snaked out, licking it away, a glistening spot left behind.

Jemma’s breath hitched, her stomach somersaulting as she watched him. 

“-Jemma,” she wrenched her eyes from Fitz to focus on her brother. His voice sang out, loud and forceful and in tune. He sounded great, she had to admit, but why he was sounding great and singing her name, she didn’t know.

> __ “ \- Jemma Jemma's   
>  Got a dilemma   
>  Keep her head down   
>  Under the radar   
>  Don't get found out ,”

“Oh.” Jemma’s voice was lost in the sound of the crowd, who were moshing along to the beat. “Oh no,” she said weakly, suddenly feeling as if she needed to sit down. Or maybe run out of the bar without looking back.

> __ “ Cuz Jemma Jemma Jemma's   
>  Got a dilemma    
>  The cold war's not in Afghanistan    
>  It's with the man   
>  At the head of the table   
>  It's a mess    
>  She can't confess   
>  She's in distress, in distress, oh in distress ”

The urge to run won out, and she turned, narrowly avoiding an elbow, in an effort to escape the dance floor. 

“Excuse me,” she pleaded, throwing her palms in front of her as she drove into the crush, trying to get away from the words -  her words. Words she’d written over and over again in her journal. The journal that had been missing for days now.

“Just move,  _ please _ , just  _ MOVE _ !” She screamed, driving an elbow into some faceless person’s side. Suddenly, a hand clutched at her wrist and she wrenched it away. “ _ DON’T TOUCH ME! _ ” She screamed, throwing her arms out to push the hands away. Tears were blurring her vision, but thankfully, not falling.

“Simmons, it’s just me,” Skye said, surging forward to pull her into a hug. 

> __ “ Lil sister's a brainy punk rocker   
>  Breaking down the Berlin Wall    
>  In biochemical science all   
>  Nobody can stop her   
>  But until she looks in the mirror   
>  Sees herself all the clearer   
>    
>  Jemma Jemma Jemma's   
>  Gonna have a dilemma   
>  Gutted and afraid to be strapped for cash   
>  She don't see what she could be    
>  If she said fuck society    
>  If she stopped caring about her daddy ”

“Your brother’s a dick,” Skye declared. She purposely spilled the last of her beer on the girl in front of her, causing her to dance away in annoyance, wet down the side of her top. 

“Whoops,” Skye apologized insincerely, wiping messily at the girl’s shirt. “I’m like,  _ waaay _ totally smashed, man,” she fibbed.

The girl made a disgusted noise in her throat and exited, knocking three more people out of their way to the bar. Skye forced Jemma forward, wreathing a comforting arm around her shaking shoulder. “Don’t cry, babe -  _ wait _ , you’re.. _.laughing _ ? I think?”

A relentless cackle boiled up from Jemma’s throat. A shoulder-shaking, wheezing, delirious cackle. 

“Are you alright?” Skye asked, genuinely concerned.

> __ “Cuz Jemma Jemma Jemma's   
>  Got a dilemma   
>  The cold war's not in Afghanistan   
>  It's with the man   
>  At the head of the table   
>  It's a mess   
>  She can't confess   
>  She's in distress, in distress oh in distress”

“Here,” Vic slammed four shot glasses on the bar, pouring the last remaining third of Jose Cuervo out of the bottle. “On the house. Drink up.”

Skye nodded her thanks, downing one before turning to Jemma who had already finished two, and was lifting the third to her lips. “Tonight, I am going to murder my brother. I hope you’re ready to dispose of a body. I am calling in that favour. Luckily, I know the directions to the local body farm. You can get your father’s car tonight, right?  Right ?”

Jemma’s eyes were gleaming maniacally as she shot the last four fingers of tequila back into her throat.

“Well, let’s not get crazy,” Skye began.

  
_ “ Oh Jemma Jemma Jemma Jemma Jemma _ _”_ Lance’s voice trailed off, his soft cough drowned out by an uproar of applause. “And that’s our set!”

 

“Too late,” Jemma seethed, stalking past Skye.

 

* * *

“ _ What. The. Hell?! _ ” Fitz declared, arms spread wide, waiting for an answer.

 

“What?” Lance shrugged off the question, flopping into the ruined armchair in the back room and propping his feet up on the makeshift milk-box sidetable. Fitz’s latest copy of  _ The Rising Tide _ ‘zine was there, a highlighter stuck between the pages.

 

“How could you  _ do _ that to ‘er?”

 

“Yeah, man. I mean, it was a good song, but  _ damn _ . That was cold,” Trip agreed, shaking his head in disappointment.

 

“It was a scorching political anthem about the war on the homefront,” Lance scoffed. “Honestly, you two are making a big deal out of nothing,” he shrugged his shoulders and waved off their concerns. 

 

“It was a pretty personal song,” Fitz crossed his arms angrily over his chest. The tiny muscle in his jaw worked as if it was gnawing on something Fitz wanted to say.

 

“The personal  _ is _ political, Fitz! It’s a fight, and Jemma  _ knows _ that!” Lance declared, standing up.

 

“ _ Yeah? _ Did she know that you were gonna lyrically curb-stomp her, too? Did she know she was going to be a casualty in your own personal bloody vendetta against your Dad,  _ too _ ?” Fitz rounded in on him, his brow low and his eyes dark, shoving Lance hard enough to stumble.

 

“What do  _ you _ know about it, _ Loverboy _ ?”Lance taunted, pushing back.

 

“I know that it was cruel, and that she didn’t deserve it. Regardless whatever bullshit political reason you came up with for doing it, she’s your sister, and that was a  _ shit _ thing to do.”

 

“You’re  _ obsessed _ with her! Infatuation, innit? Get it through your head, man, she’s  _ my _ sister, she’s  _ my _ problem,  _ my person _ to worry about! Why don’t you stop concerning yourself with what she does, and maybe start looking towards  _ you _ , mate? Basically homeless, a  _ drop-out to boot _ , like  _ that’s _ gonna impress her -” He grabbed the zine and waved it in Fitz’s furious face. “You think if you get a little sciencin’ under your belt, you’ll actually be able to hold your own in a conversation with her? You think if you read her ‘zine, somehow you know her? Well I’ve  _ news _ for you,  _ mate _ -”

 

“-Hold on,” Fitz held up a hand to stall Lance’s tirade. “ _ Her _ ‘zine?”

 

Lance shook the badly stapled pages in front of FItz’s nose. “Yeah.  _ Hers _ _._ Just like the song - every word was  _ hers _ anyways!”

 

The storeroom door slammed open, framing Jemma in the back light. “Because you _stole_ it from my journal, you fucking snake,” she accused in venomous tones.

 

“Come on, Li’l. It’s not like _ that _ ,” Lance groaned, waving the ‘zine helplessly in the air. “Everyone seems to think I’m some incredible arsehole now.”

 

“It’s because you  _ are _ !” she shrieked as she approached. “ _ How could you?! _ ” Jemma’s voice was shrill, a note of desperate frustration in her tone.

 

“You were saying all that stuff anyways! In your journal, in your zine -”

 

Jemma’s fists were knuckled at her side. Her arm pulled back swiftly to piston forward, connecting sharply with Lance’s shoulder joint. “It was  _ private _ !”

 

She hit him again, hard, in the same spot, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. 

 

“But you published half of the same stuff in  _ The Rising Tide _ anyways!”

 

“Under a nom de plume!” Her knuckles smashed into his shoulder, and he winced. “Under a pseudonym!” Another strike punctuated her words as he tried to shrink from her reach. “Not under _ my  own _ name!”

 

“It’s all publicity, innit? It’s not anything different than what you do for yourself, only I’m not a _ coward _ about it - I’m not afraid! That’s you’re big problem, Jemma! _ You’re afraid _ ! You’re afraid of not being a good little girl anymore, of what  _ daddy’s _ going to think when he finds out what he really raised - a girl who spits on his traditions and his way of life. And the worst part of it is that  _ you’re afraid of yourself _ \- and you can’t even see  _ who you are _ , you’re so blinded by it!”

 

“I hate you. I can’t believe you’d do this to me,” Jemma whispered harshly, her tongue thick in her mouth. She stole the rolled up ‘zine from his grip, diving for her journal where it poked from the opening of his rucksack. “You’re supposed to be my  _ brother _ . You’re supposed to  _ help _ me.”

 

“ _ Help you?! _ I  _ do _ help you!  _ All the time _ ! Maybe I just wanted  _ you _ to help  _ me _ for once in your bloody -”

 

The penetrating look she gave him murdered every last word of his diatribe, turning it to ash in his mouth. Her eyes were dim and walled, as though gates that had been open to him were slamming shut, dropping down. Her defenses were manning towers, like he was the enemy. “-But really, you’re _ just like him _ , aren’t you? Trying to turn me into who you want me to be.”

 

Her head fell forward, and she spun away from his sputtering reach. Somehow, she put one foot in front of the other in a mad, blind dash for the door, her breath hitching audibly in her chest.

 

“I’m an -”

  
“ _ Arsehole _ _,_ ” Fitz spat, tearing past him after Jemma’s fleeing form.

 

* * *

 

Lance singing Bobbi's Elvis cover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tadpoles and collection jar bit was in reference to Murder By Mistake, and epically fantastic 1930's Murder Mystery AU by the incomparable Recoveringrabbit, and if you haven't read it yet, you should, because it has all of the Fitzsimmons feels you want, but with more MURDER and also more Pepper Potts, which are two things you probably never knew you needed when it came to Fitzsimmons. BUT YOU DO.


	9. Complete Control (Part 3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fitz catches up with Jemma outside the pub, and sees her back to her house. Bad girl shenanigans ensue, and Fitz meet's Jemma's mother for the first time.

* * *

 

Jemma stumbled out of the service door and into the alley. The backs of her hands were coming away black and wet with tears and mascara after every inelegant swipe at her eyes.

 

“Fuck,” she muttered, trying to dig for tissues at the same time as she tried to navigate around the broken pallets that were pushed up against the bricks.

 

At least she hadn’t cried in front of him.

 

The wind cut through the side-street and hurtled against the backs of her knees, making her shiver. Jemma pulled down the sleeves of her blazer, wrapping the cuffs around her hands and clutching the lapels tight around her. Not to cut out the chill - she was sort of becoming numb to it now that the alcohol was beginning to hit her bloodstream. No, it was as if she weren’t wearing enough clothes, like no matter how many layers she might put on, she’d never be covered enough. Like no matter how tightly she wrapped herself up, she’d always feel exposed.

 

She hunched her shoulders around her ears and tucked her head in close to her chest, staring at the pavement in front of her. She jogged out onto the sidewalk, her feet fast and her footsteps thumping in her ears. They hit against the cement like her heart hit against the walls of her chest: too fast, too hard, stumbling and clumsy and loud. Her throat began to constrict tightly and painfully. It clenched and seized, and she couldn’t catch her breath, couldn’t suck the cool air into her lungs, and no matter how fast she ran, it would never be far enough - she’d always be stuck with herself, wouldn’t she?

 

The tip of her boot caught on the raised edge of a crack in the sidewalk, careening Jemma forward as if all of her self-doubts and regrets had struck out with phantom hands to push her back down.

 

Her ankle twisted with a pop and her weight hurtled her forward onto her knees and hands, scraping them roughly against the uneven surface. Her limbs banged gracelessly, jostling bones and making her stomach (nauseous from both the rapidly digesting alcohol and her recent musical debasement) slosh riotously inside her.

 

She felt naked, and small, and stupid, and helpless, and so, so, _so_ alone.

 

Shakily, she drew herself up to a sitting position, her whole body shivering like a leaf buffeted by a strong wind as she tried to pull herself together enough to stand. Pain shot in bolts up her leg from her ankle. Her head felt suddenly balloon-like, as if it were weightless, tethered with only a string, and she collapsed back.

 

All of her limbs were shaking and weak, and she couldn’t catch her breath, and her heart was thundering in her chest, and everything was wrong, everything was so, so _wrong_ , and _I must look like a lunatic, like a drunken idiot, sprawling all over the sidewalk, fucking christ, I hate this!_

 

An embittered noise clawed its way out of her mouth, and she smacked her bleeding palm against the pavement, disgusted with herself -

 

“Hey, _hey_ , don’t, _please_.” The fast, rhythmic stomping of Fitz’s footfalls got louder the closer he came, until abruptly, he skittered to a stop and dropped to her side.

 

Swiftly, she turned her head away and down, hiding her ugly tears and wrenching, sucking breaths behind the curtain of her hair. Frustratedly, she slapped at the pavement again.

 

Fitz caught her knuckles in his fingers, stilling their shiver-shake and feeling the force of her frustration pushing against his palms. His brow knotted tightly in concern as he took in her difficulty breathing. He wrapped his other hand around her wrist, pulling it into his lap as he felt her rapid pulse.

 

“I think you’re havin’ a panic attack,” he said softly.

 

Jemma managed a scoff, hiccoughing as she shook her head in the negative. “Just being - drunk and - stupid,” she wheezed out.

 

“ - My mum has them sometimes,” he explained, scooting closer, his hand hovering over her back, wanting terribly to rub calming circles against her skin. “Your heart’s goin’ a mile a minute.”

 

Jemma’s fingers, which had been stiff and straight in his careful hold, began to ease their tension and curl around his. Her head returned to neutral - not looking at him, but not looking away either. Tear trails glistened on her cheeks.

 

“I’m fine, really I - tripped. Hurt my - ankle. Shouldn’t - have - drunk so - much,” she managed between gulping breaths. Finally, she turned to him, a tight, sheepish smile denting her cheeks, as if her show of control would shake him off. The strings around his heart seemed to tighten.

 

“The good news,” he continued on, scooting just a touch closer and letting his bent knee lean lightly against her back, “Is that it’ll be gone in a moment, and you’ll be able to breathe again, and you’ll feel much better about everythin’. Cuppa tea doesn’t hurt either.”

 

Jemma’s eyes seemed to go soft as they drifted over the features of his face, assessing him like they were taking his measure. He held himself tense and still as she tilted her head, her tight smile loosening into something smaller, something a bit more real. Her fingertips pressed against his palm. “You really are - just the - kindest man - aren’t you?”

 

“-Well, I don’t know about tha’,” he blushed, scrubbing his free hand against his stubble.

 

Jemma drew a shuddery breath and her shoulders descended, much of the tension melting away. She leaned back, unconsciously nestling herself against his knee.

 

“There y’are,” he encouraged. Forgetting himself, he allowed his free hand to fall to her shoulder, thumbing soft circles against the cotton of her blazer.

 

Her breathing evened out as they sat on the nearly deserted sidewalk. The few pedestrians that approached simply walked around them, not paying them the slightest mind, as Jemma’s panic attack faded.

 

She swiped at her eyes quickly, one last time. “I’m so embarrassed,”she apologized wetly.

 

She pushed her hair firmly behind her ears and shot Fitz a commiserating look. “I’m so sorry, you shouldn’t have had to deal with that. I promise, I’m really not like this. I’m actually very rational - though you’d hardly know it, based on the majority of our interactions -”

 

“It happens to everyone -”

 

“-basketcase, much as it must seem like it -”

 

“Sometimes life just gangs up on -”

 

“-Just been….well, a lot, recently.”

 

Fitz smiled understandingly, without judgement or condescension, and levered himself up to his feet. He held out his hand for her. “S’okay. Really.”

 

“Just, promise you’ll give me a chance to prove I’m not just some hysterical kid,”

 

“O’ course.” He looked down, kicking away a piece of broken glass, “But I already know you’re not. You’re just havin’ a hell of a day, is all.”

 

Jemma’s palm was cool in his warm hand as he tugged her to standing. She had forgotten about her ankle and put her foot down in front of her for balance. Jemma wobbled forward with a sharp noise of pain, falling heavily against Fitz’s chest.

 

Her breath puffed hot and startled against the dip of his collarbone as he clutched her close, keeping her upright. She shivered lightly beneath his fingers and squeezed her eyes shut, her hands trapped against his chest.

 

“You’re cold,” he said, his hands moving to rub up and down her back, frictioning heat into her.

 

Jemma gulped at the contact. She dipped her head down and laid her cheek against his chest, trying not to think about the firm way he felt against her face. Her cheeks were on fire as she fought to tamp down their flush. His scent filled her nose - coppery sweat from the stage lights and the exertion of the show coupled with faint citrus, and something deeper - something comforting and appealing that she couldn’t name. She breathed deep, and sighed, tilting her head up.

 

Carefully, she pushed her hands against his chest and held herself away from him. It wasn’t fair of her to hang all over him like this, not when he’d made it quite clear how he felt about her - _‘I never wanted to touch you like that’_.

 

And quite right he was. Attraction was a biochemical process, and it couldn’t be forced. So he never wanted to touch her. She needed to respect that. He had been so kind. It was only right.

 

She hopped a few paces back, her arms windmilling at her sides. “Not cold,” she shot him a tight smile and nodded, trying to keep her vision from spinning. “Just drunk.”

 

Jemma tipped her toe experimentally on the pavement, and winced. “And I think I’ve sprained my ankle.” She tucked her foot up beside her calf and attempted to hop forward.

 

“-Let me help you,” he pleaded, rushing forward.

 

Jemma waved him off, hopping forward again, arms thrusting out for balance. “Oh no! I couldn’t possibly be an even further imposition! The tube station isn’t that far off, and there’s a railing coming up, in oh, about ten hops? I’m completely capable of getting there on my own steam-”

 

“-I can see that,” he gestured towards her ridiculous, drunken hopping.

 

“You’ve been a really good friend, and I’d hate to be an even bigger burden.”

 

She winced, grimacing as her foot came down a touch too hard. “-And the show! You’re missing the headliner! Your first gig! You shouldn’t have to waste your time out here, with me, _hanging all over you_. It’d be disrespectful, and your chemicals would _hate_ that.” -Wait. What had she just said? It made sense, didn’t it? _I’m sure it made sense. It sounded quite sensible in my mouth…_

 

Fitz tilted his head, eyebrows perking up in confusion. “Well, now you’re just not makin’ any sense at all,” he said, gently, coming up beside her and sliding a supportive arm around her waist. “I promise I’m not tryin’a get fresh -” His other hand took her outstretched arm and slotted it over his shoulder, causing her balance to wobble.

 

With an exasperated slap at his chest, Jemma pushed herself back to standing, giving in and allowing him to take most of her weight. “ _Of course_ you’re not. You wouldn’t dream of it - _I know_! Olefactory glands _never_ lie, and you’ve been quite clear about -”

 

“-Hang on, _what?_ ” he asked, stopping them just as they’d started moving. “Olefactory glands? What does smell have to do with anything?” Jemma’s insistent hops tugged them into motion again, but he still stared at her with knit brows and an uncomprehending look.

 

“The nose,” Jemma pointed to her own with an exaggerated, intoxicated pantomime, “ _knows_.”

 

“Wait, do I _smell_?” Fitz asked, aghast.

 

“Well _of course you do_ , Fitz,” Jemma said, her inhibitions having left her roughly five hops ago.

 

He blushed beet red, right to the roots of his hair. “‘m sorry - the stage -”

 

“- _Everyone does_!” she declared loudly, now falling into lecture mode, a comfortable schema for her. “It’s quite fascinating! Everyone has a distinctive scent caused by their chemical composition. The food you eat, your genetics, environment, even your mood, it all impacts your personal scent.”

 

They stopped on the corner of the street, waiting for the walk sign to come on. Jemma sagged a little against him, pressing her nose into the crook of his neck.

 

Fitz cast his eyes up to the sky, praying his BO wasn’t nearly as bad as he assumed. Drumming wasn’t exactly a sedate activity, which was usually why he liked it - he could work out his frustrations, hit the drums instead of other people. Useful, especially because other people were generally stupid and slow and never seemed to catch on fast enough.

 

He was beginning to wonder if this was what they felt like, as Jemma’s voice raced on, “-mix of androsterone in bodily secretions, and copulin in women, and the olefactory gland then processes that with a range of other factors - symmetry, health, et cetera. Which is why I would never assume you would flirt with me.”

 

Fitz’s mouth dropped open, about to voice his befuddlement. He must have missed something - were they even talking about the same thing?

 

“Light’s changed,” Jemma urged with a friendly smile and a squeeze of his shoulder.

* * *

 

Jemma haphazardly tossed her bag onto the seat beside her, stretching out horizontally in order to prop up her swollen ankle. A few tissues spilled out, as well as the rolled up copy of the Rising Tide, which she fished up.

 

"Oh good! I was worried it was gone forever -" Fitz breathed a sigh of relief.

 

"Why would _you_ care?" Jemma questioned, looking sidelong at him. "It's just one of the left overs from Lance's flat."

 

"No, it's my copy -" he began, reaching across the aisle for it.

 

Jemma's brows quirked together as she flipped open the pages, realization quickly dawning as she took in the careful notations. “When you said engineer -”

 

“I got my first degree at MIT, but they didn’t quite go far enough in Quantum Electrodynamics, and well, I was quite interested in working with Doctor Hall, who was at University College on tenure. His work with -”

 

“-Chemical kinetics!” Jemma chimed in excitedly.

 

“-and elementary particulates, and how that correlated with mechanics is just -”

 

“Mindblowing! Did you attend his seminar on -”

 

“Gravitonium? Did I! I swear, I was like a groupie at a Glastonbury! I managed a decent conversation afterwards, and we keep in contact now and then.”

 

“How serendipitous! I snuck in before the lecture - actually I camped out in the janitor’s closet the night before. But Rodrigo is _such_ a dear and leant me his key. I think Doctor Hall and I talked for about two hours! He was quite integral in determining -”

 

“-The reaction rates and intermediate formation reaction mechanism for the dendrotoxin formula, am I right? I thought I saw the tell-tale signs!”

 

Fitz swiped the zine from her hands, excitedly pawing through the pages, his enthusiasm spilling out like Christmas cookies from a stocking. “Tell me, have you given any thought to dispersal mechanisms? Because I have some thoughts on that. I can tell from the abstract you’ve put forward that you’re thinking a grenade of some sort, but, I think with a concentrated enough dose, it could be far more targeted -”

 

“Lessening the possibility of overdose, casualties, and inaccuracies -”

 

“Exactly, and I think with the right materials - something with a high dissolution -”

 

“-Bullet, correct? A gun or -”

 

“Long-range rifle would be my best suggestion, but it’ll be difficult to - “

 

“Compress and condense the solution itself, but honestly, can’t you just make larger bullets?”

 

“Well until I see the extent of your research, I can’t build out the specs for the bullets, now can I?”

 

Jemma tilted her face up from the page, her eyes shining with barely held excitement, her mouth splitting into a bright grin, like the sun streaming across the horizon. Strands of her hair fell across her lips as her hands reverently brushed the page.

 

The way she looked at him, it was as though he were an answer to a question he had no idea had been asked. He'd never been looked at like that before, in his whole life.

 

His heart thump-thumped heavily in his chest as her eyes stared at him expectantly, her mouth a playful, hairpin curve. Her eyes were the colour of ponds and kettle lakes and forest creeks, rich and limpid and washing over him like he could be the riverbed that held her together and moved with her along the earth.

 

"I've a proposition for you, Fitz," her voice was breathless with excitement.

 

He was nodding, open-mouthed and staring, before she even finished her sentence.

 

* * *

 

 

“ _Hang on_ ,” he hissed, shrinking behind the heavy, wrought-iron fence that lined the alley-way, “This is your house?”

 

“Ugh, it’s a monstrosity, _I know_ ,” Jemma groaned.

 

“I can’t help you break in to this! There are grounds, for god’s sake! You don’t have a garden, you have grounds! Oh, and look, a carriage house. Let me guess, the chauffeur lives above with his naive but beautiful daughter, named Sabrina?”

 

Jemma wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “No, silly. Of course not. That’s where Trudi lives.”

 

Fitz groaned, “Of course! _How_ could I forget Trudi?”

 

“I can’t even begin to fathom.” Jemma deadpanned, turning to him, a mischievous glint in her eye. “So...what do you think?” Her voice dropped to a sultry lilt, her kitten tongue darting out against her pink lips. “Care to be a part of my bad girl shenanigans?”

 

“ _Oh god yes_ ,” he breathed heavily, his field of vision narrowing to the pout of her mouth and the cupid’s bow pressed just above.

 

“Delightful,” Jemma chirped, grinning as she broke from his hold and hopped awkwardly to shove her key in the gate’s door and push it open wide. “Help me sneak into my window? It’s just over there. Second floor.”

 

Fitz snapped back to reality. Of course that’s what she meant by bad girl shenanigans. Obviously. Breaking and entering. Not kissing. Fitz’s gaze followed the path of her finger. There was a trellis.

 

“This is a terrible idea,” he whispered roughly.

 

“This is a brilliant idea,” she countered, her grin turning impish as he wound his arm around her again. He tried not to think about the way she sank into his hold, easy and comfortable and imminently trusting. “Plus, you already shook on it. You’re my partner now.”

 

“Partner in science, not in _crime_!”

 

“It’s too late, Fitz. You agreed. Twice. There’s nothing to be frightened of, honest -”

 

“- I’m not _scared,_ I -”

 

“Perfect. Then to the trellis!” Jemma giggled, hopping forward quickly like this was a three-legged race and she refused to lose.

 

Somehow, Fitz maneuvered her around to the trellis. Climbing up behind her one-handed (his other hand dangerously close to her bottom as he steadied her), his fingers brushing tantalizingly under the hem of her skirt.  After another moment, her feet upended in front of him, narrowly missing his face as she fell through her window with a litany of startlingly proficient swears.

 

Fitz scurried up behind her, throwing his weight against the sill. “Jemma?” he hissed, squinting into the darkened room. “Are you -”

 

Her hands fisted into his shirt, pulling him through the open window. Lacking the speed to catch his footing, he toppled forward, landing half on top of her. His face was pressed into the cotton-covered valley of her cleavage, and she smelled like some tropical paradise. She was soft and pliant beneath him, and god, it was hell to have to pull away - and then one of her hands ended up on his head, her nails scratching temptingly through his hair. Realizing exactly what kind of trouble this could lead to, he scrambled off of her, just managing to stifle a hopeless whimper as his back hit the wall.

 

_Because that was all this is, anyways. Hopeless._ She was like a bursting star, a lit-up spot in the dark.

 

Her breathless laughter smoldering into hushed giggles, she flipped onto her side to face him and brought her finger up drunkenly to her lips.

 

_“Shhhh_ ,” she giggled helplessly, sprawling along the floor and looking up at him from a mess of wild hair and bright eyes.

 

He couldn’t help himself. He was drawn like an asteroid into her gravitational pull, crawling on hands and knees forward, unbearably slow, the corner of his mouth pulling into a smile. The fish hook of her darkened gaze reeled him in closer. She was a world of trouble, and he was ready to explore it.

 

The world just wouldn’t stop spinning. _I am really quite intoxicated_ , Jemma thought to herself offhandedly. She had meant to think something else, had planned for other words or other thoughts, or other somethings, but they all flitted out of her head when Fitz began to crawl toward her.

 

His shoulders rolled with each forward movement. The streetlight spilled shadows against the planes of his face, and it did _things_ to her. The sway of his back stole the breath from her chest.

 

“It feels like a thousand butterflies are fluttering in my tummy,” she breathed, watching him.

 

He stopped short. _She’s drunk._

 

_She’s drunk, and you’re a gentleman. This not happening. She’s drunk, and she’s not fully cognizant, and she probably hasn’t got a clue how bloody sexy she is, how fucking arousing a picture she makes, t-shirt all rucked up, and that mouth. Dammit. Regardless. Doesn’t matter. Sober, fully-aware, there’d be no way._ She’d made that clear, the way she’d gone on and on about how he wouldn’t dare flirt with her. She really was completely out of his league. Hell, they weren’t even in the same solar system.

 

“Up you go, Simmons,” he murmured, slowing pulling her to a sitting position. He sat on his heels at her feet, his eyes downcast, his fingers carefully working the laces of her boots.

 

“Oow,” she sucked in a breath, grimacing as he gingerly pulled the boot off her swollen ankle.

 

After his ministrations, he helped her stand, his manner brusque and proper. Then he moved towards the window, ducking under the sill. He was half-out when her voice stilled his descent. “Fitz?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Um, I…” Her voice trailed off, but she bent down low, meeting his eyes. There was something gentle in her gaze. “I normally wouldn’t do this - I’d never force affections on anyone, you understand, but, I...I just, I wanted to…” She cleared her throat, dipping her head lower and lower as she breathed out, “-to thank you.”

 

Her lips pressed against his cheek and lingered, just for a moment. Her breath against his face was warm and her lips were just a touch moist, and it was like honey, soft and sweet and golden, and then it was gone.

 

His foot seemed to slip out from beneath him, and he couldn’t manage to get his hands to work, trying to grab the thin wood of the trellis as his body tumbled down against it.

 

He landed hard on his back, the air rushing from his lungs as he blinked up at her from the mangled flowerbed.

 

Her laughter rang out, tinkling like church bells, and god, the pain was worth it, just to hear her laugh, “Oh, Fitz!” over and over and over. He’d never get over the way his name sounded coming out of her mouth.

 

He blinked a few more times, clearing the lights that had burst into his eyes on impact and sucking in the breath he’d lost, and waved up. “‘m alright. You, ice that ankle.”

 

“Yes sir,” Jemma mock-saluted.

 

“...And you’ll call?” He sounded so desperate and needy to his own ears, like an abandoned puppy. He cringed.

 

“I will,” Her answer floated like downy feathers. She waved a small wave and then disappeared.

 

Fitz brought a hand up to press against the rapid pounding in his chest, as if the pressure could still it by force. Once it had calmed down to only twice its usual rate, he stood, brushing the grass off his pants. He turned to try to find his way back out towards the alley, and his eyes floundered when they focused on the tell-tale red smolder of a cigarette.

 

A woman, tall and slim with short, light hair, in her early fifties, knocked the ash off the tip of her fag, an amused look playing across her mouth as she exhaled a stream of smoke. Her eyes trained on him appraisingly.

 

He held himself still for what seemed like an eternity before she gave a businesslike nod, and waved. Fitz couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw the quirk of an odd little smile. He waved clumsily back.

 

She took another drag of her cigarette.

 

Fitz made a gesture towards the general direction of the back gate. Vera nodded, pointing with her fag, pushing the smoke wryly out of the side of her mouth.

 

Fitz nodded his thanks, sheepishly stuffing his hands in his pockets and jogging away in the direction she’d indicated, eyes trained on the ground in front of him.

 

Vera leaned thoughtfully back against the veranda pillar.

 

“What was that god-awful noise?” Harcourt grumbled from inside.

 

“Just the neighbour’s dog, dear. Go back to bed,” Vera instructed, knocking the last of the ash from her cigarette before stomping it out.

 

She glanced one final time at Jemma’s open window, quirking a single eyebrow. She understood now why Sunil held so little appeal for her daughter.

  
“Good job, Jemma.” Vera’s mouth curved into an impressed grin as she turned back to the house.


	10. Search and Destroy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance gets a wake-up call from Bobbi, while Jemma tries to make sense of the previous evening through conversations with her mother and Bobbi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey Y'all! Sorry for the wait, I was at a kick-ass music festival for the past 4 days, and didn't really have time to post! Please forgive me.

* * *

 

“Well, that was far more dramatic than I had intended,” Lance said, scratching at the stubble on his chin and staring at the door Jemma and Fitz had run through. He thought for a moment and then added, “Or, well, I _had_ thought it would be dramatic, but more in the kudos and the teary hugs and the ‘Lance, you’re so right, and so brill, what a ledge you are,’ vein of things…”

Behind him, Trip just shook his head and packed up his bass. “C’mon, man.”

“What? No! _Really_! I mean, it wasn’t _un_ true!” He spun to face Trip, “And you have to admit, the lyricism was impressive! _I_ was impressive!”

Trip looked up from clipping his hard-case shut and exhaled an exasperated breath. He stared long and hard at Lance’s disbelieving face. “If you can’t see what you’ve done man, I feel bad for you. That was your _baby sis_ , Hunter. She looks up to you, you know that, right? You’re all she’s got, and you just ruined that.”

Trip stood and slung his case onto his back. He clapped a hand to Lance’s shoulder. “Regardless of what’s going on with Jemma, she’s gotta get there herself. You can’t force that on somebody, especially not like this. I think your heart was probably in the right place, but man, you done fucked up.”

“ _Lance Hunter!_ ” An irate female voice rang out.

Trip winced and gave Lance’s shoulder a squeeze. “...And that’s my cue.”

He passed Bobbi with a quick pat on the upper arm and a quiet, “Go easy on him.”

“Not gonna happen,” Bobbi spat, waving Trip off.

She took two long-legged strides forward, nearly vibrating with frustration. Her mouth opened and shut, and then opened and shut again, the right way to phrase the emotions and thoughts in her head evading her. She clenched her fists impotently. Her heated glare was something between frustration and anger and a silent plea.

“...So I take it you didn’t like my scorching political anthem, either?”

“How _could you_ , Lance?! How could you _do_ that?! How could you _possibly_ , in your wildest imagination, in your _arguably rare_ bright moments think that that was a good idea?! How could you think How could you think 'I know what'd be good! I'll just use Jemma's journal to spill her personal life all over the stage! Yeah! That won't hurt her at all! Perfect!'” Bobbi exploded.

She took an intimidating step forward and Lance mirrored her, retreating. Bobbi reeled herself in, standing taut and still, her eyes beseeching. “I don’t understand how you could _do_ that to her. I just can’t fathom how you could spill her secrets and her problems out to strangers like that. You’ve spent so much of your life trying to be there for her, and then you turn around and pull something as boneheaded as _this_?”

“In my defense, she had already published pretty much all of that in her own ‘zine! Which...I _now_ realize was under a different name for reasons that were _not_ because she got to have a rad alias…”

Bobbi slapped her hands against her thighs, clutching at her jeans and looking up to the heavens as if in prayer for some patience. “You didn’t even think to _maybe_ run it past her first?”

“Well...No.” Lance admitted, rolling his shoulders forward and stuffing his hands in his pockets. He grimaced as he added, “I wanted it to be a surprise?”

“Lance, you _idiot_!”

“Well to be fair, no one has ever credited me with an overabundance of brains! The cleverness all went to Jemma, didn’t it? I just maybe wanted to impress you with the song you requested, something all intelligent and metaphor-filled, aye? And maybe I wanted her to see I could be good at something too. And maybe she might hear how she lives, and maybe she’d get that kick she needed to make some changes. You’re the one who’s always going on about tough love and -” Lance gestured towards her.

Bobbi threw her hands up in the air. “There is a _difference_ between tough love and being a complete fucking dickhead to your sister - _who_ , I’m gonna remind you, is in a tough place in her life! And not just financially! You’re fine with Harcourt not paying you much attention, and _thank god_ , but Jemma’s got him breathing down her neck _all the time_ , making her doubt herself! You think it’s _easy_ , trying to please your family and trying to figure out who you are in the process? She’s walking a tightrope, and you just tugged it all out of balance. Jesus _Christ_ , Lance.”  

“I just…”Lance bit down, cutting off the end of his sentence. He scratched nervously at the back of his head and stared at the floor. “I just wanted to impress you. _To be impressive._ For once.”

Bobbi surged forward, tugging on the lapels of his denim vest, and shook him hard. She groaned loudly, rankled. “Lance, you idiot.”

“Yeah, yeah, _okay_ , I’m getting that, aren’t I? I realize I’m -”

“-Impressive as hell?”

Lance quirked an eyebrow and flicked his eyes up to look at the beautiful, statuesque blonde who clung hard to his front. She was staring at him with imploring eyes.

“You are the single most impressive man I have _ever_ known. You love so hard. You’d throw yourself in front of bullets and out of planes and do all kinds of other stupid things for the people you love. You’d give them the shirt off your back - you’d give them the food off your plate, so long as they didn’t go hungry.” Bobbi tilted her head to the side, palming his cheek affectionately. “You pretend to be all hard, but you’re a soft touch, Lance Hunter. Pretty sure you always have been. The way you’re there for your sister, the way she relies on you, how much she adores you and looks up to you, how _deeply_ she trusts you - it says so much about who you are. You impress the hell out of me.”

Slowly, and without looking at her, Lance wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her against him comfortingly. Bobbi settled in against his chest, her fingers playing against his jawline.

“And you screw up, just, _all_ the time. It is _impressive_ how large and varied your screw-ups are.” She gave him a wry half-smile. “But you _try_. You always try. And you never give up. And that’s why I - I can’t believe I’m doing this -” Bobbi’s smile grew a little more as she shook her head, disbelieving, “I came in here to break up with you, and now, I’m this close to declaring my stupid love for you, you jerk. I hate how you do this, every time. Dammit.” She added as an aside, before continuing, “And that’s why I’m going to help you fix this.”

“Really?”

“But if you screw up like this again, we’re done, Hunter. Never again. I refuse to go around cleaning up your messes.”

“Bob, you’re a ledge.” Lance leaned towards her, peppering her face with kisses until she sputtered with barely contained laughter. “A real brick.”

“Quit comparing me to building materials.” She forced her mouth into a disgruntled frown.

“Aye, aye, captain,” Lance saluted jokingly.

“There’s gonna be a list of demands,” she warned as he stepped into her hips first, grinding happily against her. His lips found the dip of her collarbone, and she fought a doting smile. It wasn’t working. Her eyes were soft as they looked at him: at his wide, rounded shoulders encompassing her, his mouth moving along her neck. Quickly, before she lost her train of thought within the denouement of the moment, added, “And you’re gonna follow _every single one_ to the letter - no complaining! Or else I’m gonna leave - for _good_ this time!”

“Mmmhmm. For good,” he agreed, nuzzling along her shoulder, his fingers tugging down the strap of her shirt.

She breathed in sharply as his teeth scraped along the path her strap had travelled. Finally she gave in, removing her hands from where they clutched at the hem of his tshirt. She ran her nails up his sides, under his t-shirt, over the panel of his ribs, loving the way he shivered under her ministrations.

* * *

 

“At least I should only have to wrap it up for a few weeks, according to Dr. Khan,” Jemma noted, setting her crutch to the side of the table and angling her chair to overlook the lake.

The Pavilion Cafe was her mother’s favourite spot, and their particular hideaway when Vera had dishy gossip to share about one or another of the society women she chummed around with, or when Jemma had found out something particularly salacious about her professors or other grant seekers.

“I hope you’ll keep it wrapped up for a good sight longer,” Vera replied with a wink.

Jemma tilted her head, her mouth flattening into a slightly confused line. “Well, I do expect to need to take care, especially on the laboratory floors...cement and all that.”

Across the pavilion, wildlife fluttered about, building nests and pollinating the abundant flower beds. Jemma breathed deeply. As she exhaled, she felt the tension in her shoulders release, and she hugged her arms to her chest. Her mind replayed select scenes from the night previous, a glad little curve pinned at the corner of her mouth.

“My, but don’t you seem relaxed, my duck,” Vera’s smile was small but knowing as she looked over her menu. “Aside from the sprain, of course, last night must have been just what you needed.”

Jemma's mouth stretched into an exhausted but beatific smile. “Well, I did deal with some of my kinks last night.”

Vera sputtered a laugh around the ice cubes in her water-glass.

“What?” Jemma insisted, wanting to be in on the joke.

“Your...kinks? Have you now?”

“With my partner.”

“You have a... _partner_ now...That you’re working out... _kinks_...with?” Vera tilted her chin down, peering concernedly at Jemma from across the table.

Vera reached out her perfectly manicured hand to squeeze Jemma’s. “I am so glad you feel close enough to share such...intimate details of your life with me, darling, but there really is a line that parents and children just shouldn’t cross.”

Jemma’s eyebrows screwed up in confusion. “I never knew you felt so strongly about it.”

Vera quickly jumped in, “No! No, I am so glad we’re talking about it - it feels like we haven’t had a chat like this in just yonks! And I _want_ to know just everything, _everything_ , darling, but perhaps not... _everything_. You understand, dear?”

Jemma narrowed her eyes, trying to puzzle out what her mother actually meant. The waitress came by and took their orders with friendly aplomb, pouring coffee into their mugs. A waterbird skimmed low against the surface of the lake.

“So!” Vera began, “Tell me about your _partner_! That’s a very egalitarian term. You young folks these days. _Tres moderne_ ,” she sashayed her shoulders a bit and winked outrageously.

Her mother was determined to be opaque and odd today, it seemed. Jemma kept on having the feeling that she was being let in on only half of the conversation, as though she were missing every second word.

“Well, he’s a bit unconventional, but I think, you know, that’s where ingenuity resides.”

“Yes, yes. That creativity _is_ important - I mean, after a time, things can get just _routine_ , can’t they? Grab that, poke here, watch this, don’t do that, don’t put that there...Why, at that point, you might as well get a stop-watch and time it all out! I’m fairly certain it just sort of becomes this very efficient chore, and half the time - _more_ , if I’m honest, I half-wish I hadn’t agreed to it at all,” Vera sighed, leaning her chin on her hand, swirling her sugar around her coffee mug.

Jemma nodded understandingly, reaching across the table to pat her mother’s hand. “Edie again?”

Vera shook her head, “Oh no dear, that was a mistaken experiment years ago. Too much champagne at the hospital fundraiser,” Vera smiled foolishly and stared across the surface of the lake with a wistful smile.

“But aren’t you planning the benefit together this year, as well? She was such a pill the last time, I’ll admit, I'm a bit worried.”

“Oh yes, she was a pill, certainly,” Vera looked thoughtful, and then shrugged. “Well, you know what they say - try everything twice. Just to be sure.”

“That’s very scientific and reasonable of you,” Jemma agreed with a sunny nod. Moving the conversation back to the previous topic, she said, “And my partner, you know, he complements me so well.”

“It’s so important to find someone who can do that - who can really _read_ you,” Vera nodded.

The waitress brought out their dishes. They shuffled things around on the table for a few minutes, getting things in order as they tucked into their meal.

“He’s brilliant too - on his way to a Ph.D - though he'd clearly have had it ages ago if money weren't an issue. He even did his first degree at M.I.T.! I do think I managed to steal him from someone else's clutches, lucky for me. He came out here for Dr. Hall, of course -”

“Shared interests are just _essential_ , and from the sounds of him, you're probably much better suited together. He'd have to be brilliant to keep up with you! Probably was bored to tears elsewhere. And you haven’t scared him off with all your talk of toxins and ribozomes and chemical compounds, yet?”

“Oh no! It just all seems to really excite him!”

“-As in... _excite_ him?” Vera questioned, pausing with a strawberry  halfway to her mouth, brows puckering.

“Oh yes! You wouldn’t believe how _keen_ he gets when I explain all of my projects and theories -” Jemma gulped down a mouthful of porridge and clotted cream, her enthusiasm seeming to radiate out of her pores. “ -He’s got _all sorts_ of toys he wants to use, and he’s even begun drawing up some schematics for some _very_ promising designs -”

Vera coughed, choking on a blueberry, her face turning red.

"- You should see his hardware, mum. It's _unbelievable_."

When Vera came to, watery-eyed, she managed a wan smile. “Sunil surely can’t compare to that.”

Jemma shot her mother a taken aback look. “What on earth has _Sunil_ got to do with anything? _Of course_ he can’t compare - he’s a psychologist. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, as far as I can understand the purpose of the discipline, it hardly deserves to be considered a _science_. I mean, look at all that kerfuffle with Freud! Honestly, Sunil is absolutely useless in a lab.”

“Lab. Laboratory. Partner. Yes.” Vera nodded largely, finally realizing the conversation that Jemma had been having was far, _far_ different than the one that she had been having. “That is what we were discussing.”

“- And you wouldn’t _believe_ how I met him! It was so serendipitous, really! He’s the drummer in Lance’s band!”

“ _Really_? Of all the incredible things!” Vera managed, recovering quickly. “And is he one of those _avante garde_ types too?” She recalled the man from the night before, falling out her daughter’s window and looking up at her as though she was the entire universe. There had been constellations in his eyes.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh you know, those punk rock types - all worn denim and mohawks and tattoos? All very Vivienne Westwood.”

Jemma tilted her head and looked at her mother suspiciously. “Yes, actually. Almost exactly the way you describe. Why do you ask?”

“Oh,” Vera used her fork to wave away the question, a piece of waffle balanced precariously on the end. “No reason. Just curious.”

* * *

 

A week later, and Jemma was off of the crutches, limping about the university’s research lab, when the phone rang.

“Dr. Simmons?” Geordie, the security guard, asked. His post was the front gate, by the metal detectors. He was very thorough in his duty, and to be fair to the heavy-set northerner, the labs in this wing were highly confidential.

“Yes?”

“I’ve got a Miss Barbara Morse here to see you.”

“Oh? Really? Send her through, I guess,” Jemma peeled off her gloves and tossed them in the bin. She’d just finished super-concentrating a sample solution, based on the specifications Fitz had mentioned off-hand during their train ride. Well, he hadn’t mentioned them specifically, but she’d extrapolated, based on the conversation.

“She’s doesn’t have a badge, doctor.”

Jemma bit back a groan. “Could you acquire one for her? Or simply send her through on good faith? I will vouch for her.” Honestly, these protocols were just ridiculous. If they couldn’t even trust their own researchers, how would they get anything done. So frustrating.

“‘Pologies doctor, but rules is rules and if I start breakin’ em fer you, I’d better start breakin’ em fer everyone, and then it’d just be anarchy, wouldn’t it? I might as well walk myself off the job. ‘Fraid there’s nothin’ for it doctor. You’ll have to meet her at the gate,” Geordie insisted.

Jemma sighed heavily into the phone. “Alright. Tell her I’ll be there as fast as I can limp.”

“Sorry again, doctor. You know I can’t play favourites.” He cleared his throat and then mumbled in a rush, “Evenifyouaremine.”

“Aw, Geordie,” Jemma said, “You dear, sweet, daft man.” And then she hung up.

A few minutes later, Jemma hobbled into the foyer. “Bobbi! This is a surprise!” Her smile was tight and glued on.

“I know. I tried to get a hold of you earlier, but you haven’t been at Lance’s, and every time I tried to call your house, I got cold feet. I figured in person was better, anyways.” Bobbi offered her arm and led Jemma to a row of plastic chairs. “That looks like it hurts.”

“Ah, but not more than my pride,” Jemma said wryly.

“Yeah...about that…” Bobbi began. “I have to apologize. A lot. And with feeling. That was my fault. I didn’t intend for Lance to take it that way, but the whole reason behind it? That was me. I sort of egged him on to write something political and intelligent and just kind of walk the walk, and, well...you know the rest.”

“He stole my journal and metaphorically stripped me naked and threw me out into a crowd. It’s like my Year 8 swimming trip all over again, except Sonia Carlson and Mindy Carlisle weren’t there with polaroids. And this time I sprained my ankle in a drunken bid to escape.”

“Fitz made sure you got home okay, though, right? He said he did, but if he didn’t -”

“-Oh no, Fitz was perfect! I mean, he was…” she cleared her throat.Yes, he saw me home safely. He was very...attentive,” Jemma said, thinking about the way his face had cut through the glare of the streetlight as he’d crawled to her side. Her stomach fluttered in remembrance.

“You know your brother,” Bobbi continued. “He’s well-intentioned, and a really good guy, and man, does he love you like hell. But he’s an _idiot_. I will be the first to admit he’s dumber than a bag of hammers most of the time.”

“I know he didn’t mean it that way -”

“He _didn’t_! He just wanted to impress me - and you, too. He’s got kind of an inferiority complex when it comes to you. You know that, right?”

“ _Me_?” Jemma sputtered, flabberghasted.

“You’re so smart and your mind runs about ten thousand miles a minute, and you know exactly what you want out of life and how to get there.”

“But _he’s_ the impressive one! He’s so independent and cool and devil-may-care and he knows who he is and he doesn’t _care_ if anyone doesn’t like it! And he’s got all these friends and his life is so exciting and -”

“I know! I know! Of course _I_ know, but _he_ doesn’t see it that way. So he wanted to show you he could be good at something too. And I think he kinda wanted to show you a bit of tough love with the whole Harcourt situation. The thing is, he’s never been in your position, so he doesn’t realize what a balancing act you’re doing. He just didn’t _think_.”

“I know,” Jemma sighed, clutching the back of her neck anxiously, trying to put words to her emotions (something she was never good at). “And I _want_ to be okay with it, and I _want_ to forgive him, but I just can’t right now. I think I need...more time...to, I don’t know. To trust him again.”

“And fair enough,” Bobbi insisted. “That was a low blow. But at _least_ let me take you out to apologize for my part in it, and you can give me a list of demands,” she smiled and nudged Jemma’s shoulder with her own. ”Which, by the way, he’s already agreed to. And then we can smooth things out a bit? I know he feels terrible about it.”

“I know,” Jemma sighed again.

“So, drinks? Bring Skye and we’ll make it a girl’s night?”

Jemma nodded and smiled accomodatingly. “Sure.”

“Saturday? At the Queen Victoria? Eight work for you?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the talky-talk of this chapter. It serves as mostly a lead in to chapter 11, which is going to be filled with hilarity and ridiculousness, and I think there might be a drunk dial. I'm not sure yet.


	11. London Calling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobbi, Skye, and Jemma get together for a girls night out, where the conversation takes a decidedly...personal...turn. When the girls return to the flat, demands are made of Lance, who, in turn confronts Fitz about his feelings for Jemma.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to @abookmole for helping me with the blocking for the bar scene! It was enjoyable already, but it was even better when she *literally* acted out Skye's parts. You'll see what I mean...
> 
> Also, big hugs to Pi who managed to beta this in between a mountain of other things!

* * *

  
****

“Well, I hate Raina, but that didn’t stop me from sticking my tongue down her throat,” Skye declared, downing the last of her beer and waving for their - fifth? (or was it sixth?) round of drinks. “I just keep thinking I should make a move on Trip before she does.”

Bobbi nodded sagely, and sipped at her fruity drink. “Yeah, lock that one down. He’s a good one.” She pulled up her straw and jabbed it in Jemma’s direction. “What about you?”

Jemma accidentally spilled a little bit of her gin martini down the neck of her pink sundress, between the buttoned lapels. It dribbled uncomfortably into her cleavage. “What? _Who? Me?_ ”

She very industriously dabbed a bar napkin into her cleavage, focusing her attention on the stickiness and not on the heat rising in her cheeks. “I haven’t the faintest -”

“Fitz.” Bobbie said, just as Skye cut in -

“ _Obviously._ We are talking about Fitz.”

Vic slid the tray down between the three women and leaned in close on her elbows, passing out the drinks. “You know, lanky, male, tattooed and mohawked? Drums for your brother’s band? Who you _weren’t_ blowing in the bathroom? That Fitz?”

Jemma’s eyes grew successively larger as she pushed into the back of her chair, angling away from the intrusive line of questioning. She made a show of thinking hard, and then snapped her fingers as if she'd just suddenly discovered which exact Fitz they might be referring to. “Oh _Fitz_. Yes. That Fitz. _Fitz_. Mhmm.” She nodded repeatedly and then gulped what remained of her martini, reaching for the one Vic had just brought, “...What was the question, again?”

“Oh boy,” Bobbi intoned, taking a long pull of her drink. “Girl, you’re hopeless.”

“I’ll have you know I have won the Colworth Medal a grand total of three times, was the youngest winner of the European Medal for Bio-inorganic Chemistry at age fourteen, am well on my way to winning the Datta lectureship and Medal. And if my extraordinarily secret, confidential, hush-hush,” Here her voice dropped to a harsh stage-whisper, “ _completely groundbreaking dendrotoxin formula and delivery mechanisms come to fruition, then possibly the Nobel Prize too! Thanks to Fitz and his fantastic hardware! Hopeless. My left foot, i am_.”

“ _Ooh la la_!” Skye giggled, “His hardware!”

Bobbi winked, “Got some good equipment, has he?”

“That is! I _cannot_ \- _You_! That is _hardly_ appropriate! He is simply my lab partner! We’re partners in _science_...it’s a.. _.higher_...Those _base_ drives mean -” Jemma stammered, her cheeks blazing red.

“Tell me more, tell me more, am I right ladies?” Vic joked, nudging Bobbi with her elbow. “...I have no idea. I tried. I’m shit at girl-talk. But I’m good at drinks. Another round, on the house.”

Skye cheered, balancing teeteringly on her chair, and encouraged the entire bar to clap loudly. “ _Ow-Ow!_ ” She finished, sliding back down with a painful thump.

“All I’m saying is that you two have been spending a lot of time together, and you guys mesh _so_ well. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it,” Bobbi raised a pointed eyebrow.

“Well...it doesn’t mean anything, scientifically speaking, it’s hardly worth mentioning, because psychology and the brain chem...mi..chemis...chemicals -”

“Spit it out Simmons! I could die waiting for you to dish,” Skye interrupted.

“I may have had a personal...moment. Where upon he played a fairly starring role…”

“Wait, like? In person? Did you two -? Or like, were you…?”

“ _Masturbating! YES! Bobbi, I was_! Why don’t you ask me to shout it out to the entire bar?” Jemma gesticulated wildly, flinging half her martini onto the floor beside her.

“...because you just did,” Skye giggled, drawing her knees up to her chest and watching the interplay between the other two women.

“So you’ve been fantasizing about Fitz?”

“I mean, he just sort of... _appeared_. In the middle of things. I don’t think we can classify that as fantasizing exactly. It wasn’t as though I had planned out this elaborate plot or anything,” Jemma said, flippantly. She waved her martini (which spilled) just to show how trivial it really was.

“But you were _thinking_ about him and _touching_ yourself?”

Skye’s mouth dropped into a delightfully scandalized ‘O’.

Jemma, by now, was so far past three sheets to the wind that she finally just sighed and gave up on any pretense of what her sober mind would consider to be forethought or propriety, or even good sense. She shrugged her shoulders and waved a dismissive hand in the air. “Better him than Sunil.”

“ _And?!_ ” Skye hissed loudly, leaning forward and banging her fists on the table.

“Well what on _earth_ do you want to know? Did he have good hands? _Of course_ he had good hands! Have you _seen_ that man’s hands? Wh-”

“...Just hands?” Bobbi intoned, taking an innocuous sip of her Sex on the Beach.

“Well, I extrapolated from his general stature and the size of both feet and hands, and of course, he wears some rather tight jeans which... _reveal_...a certain...outline, occasionally, that well… He would be _particularly_...He walks _very much_ like a man that is... _Well_ endo-”

“Shhhh, _shhh_ ,” Skye pressed Jemma’s martini against her lips, effectively halting her sentence, “Shhh your pretty mouth. Drink. _Please_.”

“What Skye _means_ to say is that we’re so pleased.” Bobbi added, grinning a satisfied grin. She looked like the cat that had got the canary, sitting there with her fruity drink.

Skye turned to Bobbi, her eyes widening and her movements discombobulated as she surged forward, “ _You need to teach me that!_ ” She hissed. “You’re like, _really good_ at ...intero...itinerant, nope, wrong word...uh… Interrogation!” She slapped the table and stood up, pressing her face close to Bobbi’s and squinting, staring her hard in the eye. “Hey, are you like, a spy?”

Skye pressed her face drunkenly against Bobbi’s ear and half-whispered, half screeched, “ _Do you know my dad?_ ”

Bobbi carefully took Skye by the shoulders and pushed her away. “Who’s your dad?”

“He’s like, a secret agent. And a dad. He’s a…” Here, she pulled away, grabbing the air for an invisible mic, before she broke into song. “ _Secret Agent Dad_!”

“Skye!” Izzy shouted from the bar.

“ _They’ve given you a number, taken away your name -”_ Skye thrust her foot onto a chair, threw a hand up into the air, and did a deep lunge, really getting into her rendition of the song. “ _Beware of the dad-like faces that you find, A dad’s face can hide a parental mind -_ ”

“No bad Karaoke in my damn bar! How many times?!” Izzy continued, finally getting through. Skye froze in the midst of her deep lunge on the chair, her hand outstretched dramatically.

“I’m not singing, I’m...uh, I’m doing...Performance art! Yeah! I’m uh, enacting a scene as ...” Skye turned to Jemma and whispered, “ _Jem, who’s a Dyke Goddess?_ ”

Jemma clapped her hands enthusiastically, “Ooh! Dike was the greek goddess of justice and the spirit of moral order -”

Skye impatiently waved away the suggestion. “No, I mean, like, a sapphic goddess? Like, a _real_ lesbian, knee deep in boobs and pussy?”

“ _Ahh_ ,” Jemma nodded, catching on, “That would be the Goddess Diana, She of the Hunt. She swore never to marry nor to bear her virginal body before men, and sometimes, like in the myth of Actaeon, if they attempted to espy her, she turned them into prey and had her cadre of nymphs hunt them down and dismember them, ripping them apart in an _orgy_ of blood and lust _and_ -”

“ _Eww_. Thanks. That’s great.” Skye shushed her, “I am Diana, super-dykey Roman Goddess of the hunt, and like, bitches and shit!"

Izzy's bar rag sailed directly into Skye's face.

* * *

 

Somehow, around two in the morning, Bobbi managed to single-handedly maneuver Jemma up the many flights of stairs to Lance’s flat. There was no way she’d have been able to feel comfortable leaving her at the Kensington House with Harcourt breathing disapprovingly down her neck. The hangover she was bound to have was going to be bad enough.

They’d pawned Skye off onto her father at a side street, (“I’m so sorry, Sir, to wake you at this hour, but -” Bobbi had sighed. “Don’t worry about it Agent Morse,” he’d interrupted with a thankful smile. “Did she really burst out into an impromptu rendition of Secret Agent Man?”) and had stumbled the rest of the way to Lance’s building.

Bobbi kicked Lance’s door open and flicked on the lights. His bleary-eyed face greeted them, blinking from the sudden shift in brightness. “Oy. You.”

“Yeah, me.”

“I don’t like you very much right now, Big.” Jemma said, her big brown eyes filling limpidly with tears, her bottom lip growing trembly and large.

“I _want_ to like you as much as I like dissecting cat livers, but I just _can’t_ right now and it's _really hard_ for me!” Her voice had gone wobbly.

Lance looked at Bobbi pleadingly. “Weren’t you supposed to fix this?”

Bobbi fixed him with a withering glare. “She has some demands before she concedes forgiveness, which is her right, and which you have already agreed to, so _shut it_ and listen.”

Lance groaned loudly, wrapping the blanket he had in his hand around his shoulders and flopping onto the couch. “Alright then.”

“Go on Jemma,” Bobbi said.

“I want a locked drawer for my secret things, like my journal and my panties and my vibrator,” she swiped a hand against her teary eyes. “And I want the only key.”

“You have a _what_ now?” Lance screeched, moving to stand.

Bobbi pressed him back into the couch and squeezed his shoulder so hard at the pressure point  that he winced.

“I mean, _sure_. Yes. Of course.”

“ _And I want caramels_ ,” Jemma added, hiccoughing. “I want the drawer to be _perpetually full_ of caramels.”

“But L’il...If it’s _locked_ , and you have the _only key_ …” He was mindful of Bobbi’s sharp nails digging painfully into his shoulder. “How’m I s’posed to, you know, get them _in_ there?”

“How should _I_ know? Build a slide contraption!” Jemma threw her hands up awkwardly. “Maybe with levers?”

“You think it’s _silly_ , don’t you?” she accused.

“Well, I don’t think it’s _un_ silly, pet.”

“It’s what I _want_!”

“Fine, yes, then _yes_. Can’t say fairer than that, I s’pose, but how am I going to build it? I’m shit at that sort of thing…”

“Call Fitz,” Bobbi suggested innocently.

“ _Yes_!” Jemma cried, walking towards the wall-mounted phone. “ _S’brilliant_ _idea_ , Bobbi! I think I _will_ call Fitz.”

“ _Ah nah nah_ ,” Bobbi intercepted her midway, and steered her towards Lance’s room.

“But that’s where _I_ sleep,” he whined.

“Not tonight, babe,” she said, a mischievous glint in her eye as she added, “In fact, I think you should leave. You’ve done enough damage here. She doesn’t need to see you when she’s sick and hung-over tomorrow.”

“But this is _my_ flat!” he screeched ineffectually.

“And I’m kicking you out of it.”

“Where am I supposed to _go_?!” He caught the workboots and jacket she flung at him.

“Bunk with Fitz at the garage,” she shrugged. “It’ll be a good time to ask him for help with the drawer.”

“Kip at the garage with Fitz?!”

“Bye, have a fun time!” Bobbi thrust a blanket and pillow into his arms and slammed the door, with him on the outside of it.

“Kicked out of my own flat,” he grumbled, stalking down the hall. “Kip with Fitz, she says.”

He growled low in his throat. “ _Evil hellbeast._ ”

* * *

 

Fitz stood at the back door to the garage, holding it open. “Bobbi called.”

“ _She-demon spawned from Satan’s loins_ ,” Lance muttered under his breath as he slipped past the other man.

“So, erm,” Fitz began, gesturing towards the office. “The couch is there, and uh, the loo’s on the left, and I’ve pulled out Mack’s spare cot for you to kip on. I couldn’t find any extra blankets but, I uh, I see you’ve brought your own, so that’s…” He trailed off for a moment, then scratched at the stubble on his cheek. “That’s nice.”

Lance stomped heavily into the office and flung his things onto the cot with an aggravated puff of breath. They fell off immediately.

“This is awkward, isn’t it?” Fitz asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

Lance simply groaned, long and sustained, and bent down to fish his pillow from beside the overflowing refuse bin.

“I’ll just pop out to the kitchen to make us a cuppa,” Fitz said, stumbling out of the tension-filled room.

Lance dragged the pillow by its corner, and flung it back onto the cot. It had caught on a piece of much-crumpled paper which fluttered wanly down on top. Grumbling, Lance grabbed it to throw it back into the trash, but the scribbled lines captured his attention.

“I don’t want to be the Sid to your Nancy,” he muttered, scanning the lines, recognition flooding into his eyes like a light in a darkened room. “ _Oh_.”

It was about Jemma. It was about Fitz and Jemma. Or, more precisely, it was about the fact that Fitz, like, _loved_ Jemma. There were scratched out lines about kids, even. Marriage too. He was - _he was_ …

“The sodding bugger’s dead-gone on my baby sister,” Hunter breathed.

Fitz lunged forward, snatching the crumpled paper from Lance’s grasp.

“Hey!” Lance cried. “That was good!”

“S’crap,” Fitz mumbled, his face tomato red. “An’ it doesn't mean anythin’. Just...you know, words.” He tossed the crumpled paper ball back in the trash. “Never been very good with’em.”

“Do you mean it though?” Lance asked, crossing his ankles and leaning back on his hands against the wall, staring intently at Fitz.

The drummer's hands were clutching at the small of his back as he paced in the tiny room. He kept looking back, about to say something, but then stopping himself short with a stumble or a half caught sentence, his face entreating.

“It’s a simple question, Fitz,” Lance said in a voice he was proud remained calm, “Are you falling for my baby sister?”

Fitz stared up at the ceiling, his hands beseechingly held out, as if asking for both forgiveness and grace. “...I think I’m starting to?”

A frustrated growl slipped past his lips as he scrubbed at his loose curls. “Not that it’ll ever amount to anythin’, of course. A girl like that - beautiful and brilliant... She might even be smarter than me, go figure, and _funny_! You should have heard her joke about the Farraday Cup!” Fitz chuckled to himself, still pacing, thrumming with frustrated tension.

“Of course, I _finally_ meet someone - someone like _her_ \- and I’m broke and livin’ on a couch at a garage and I mean, _look at her_ , and then look at me, and _what am I_ , compared? What do I bring to the table? Maybe some gadgets and some science, but outside of that, as a... _as a man_ -” He paused and looked at Lance, whose eyebrows had turned up at the center in sympathy. Fitz flopped down beside him.

“What I mean to say is, there’s no way she’d _ever_ be interested in someone like me, so you can rest easy.”

Lance patted him commiseratingly on the back. “As a man that is _certainly_ unworthy of the goddess-like creature I somehow managed to obtain, I’d urge you not to throw in the towel quite so quickly. Sometimes miracles do happen. Some women are prone to making _terrible_ mistakes with their love lives.”

“So you’re...alright? With this?”

“With your pitiful crush on Jemma?” Lance shrugged. “Based on my reading, your intentions appear honorable, so, yeah, mate. I am.”

“It doesn’t rightly matter, though,” Fitz sighed, scrubbing his hands over his face in a defeated manner. “She told me herself that I shouldn’t dream of flirting with her.”

“Weird.” Lance stretched out along the cot, “‘specially considering how _keen_ she was to call you up and how much _she_ was flirting with _you_ at the gig.”

* * *

 

Jemma stumbled around the couch on the way back from the bathroom, slapping her hand on the wall to steady herself. Her fingers brushed along the phone cord.

She had wanted to call someone earlier.

Who was it again? She had been very excited about the prospect, and she could feel the butterflies rising in her stomach upon thinking about it, and then in her mind flashed a visceral memory of Fitz’s hand, soft and gentle and hot and large at the back of her neck, tangled in her hair, his other hand soft at her waist, as he levered her to sitting two weeks previous.

Her fingers were dialing the number before she’d realized, astounded, that she’d memorized the line to Mack’s Garage.

“Hi, Fitz,” she said softly.

 


	12. Should I Stay or Should I Go Now?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Jemma's fateful phone call to Fitz after her night of drunken revelry, what kind of changes will the morning bring?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dearest darlings, I am so very sorry this has taken so long. Thank god I've got Pi who helped me write myself out of the corner I'd created. Thus, here you are. Don't kill me after.
> 
> #sorrynotsorry

 

* * *

 

Fitz bounced up and down on the balls of his feet, waiting impatiently for the phone to connect.

“What?” Skye grumbled sleepily.

“Hi! Hello - Skye. It’s Fitz, the uh - the drummer -”

“I know who you are, Fitz,” she said without a trace of humour in her voice.

“Yes, well - um, I was wondering, since you’re her friend and all, what, uh, what does Jemma take in her tea?” He snapped his fingers and added quickly, “And does she prefer scones or muffins? Any particulars?”

Skye groaned, long and sustained, and tried desperately not to vomit as she moved to sit up. “Just milk, and she likes lemon scones the best, but blueberry muffins will do if there aren’t any lemon scones.” A thought hit her suddenly. “-Hey, how did you get my number?”

“Oh, I uh, I asked Trip.” Fitz cringed, adding, “Hope that’s alrigh’?”

“Trip knows my number?” Her voice was suddenly high and excited.

 

* * *

 

The spare key had been just where Jemma had said, and it turned easily in the lock. Carefully, Fitz balanced the box of scones and the two, piping hot paper cups in one hand, pushing the door open as quietly as he could.

It was still rather early, and though he wasn’t an early riser by nature, he’d hardly been able to sleep after the dial tone had sounded last night. He shook his head still awed, thinking about what had transpired.

“Are you...are you  _drunk_?” he’d asked, trying impossibly to keep the aghast tone from his voice.

“I  _am_ in fact. Though I expect, due to my body mass and the approximate quantities of alcohol consumed, to be fully sober by about half-past nine tomorrow morning.” Her words were over-enunciated and vacillated somewhere between haughty and playful.

Fitz stepped out of the office, closing the door around the phone cord, while Hunter snored loudly in the other room. “So this is a drunk-dial, then?” He couldn’t help the hopeful, teasing tone that slipped into his brogue as he leaned heavily against the wall and grinned.

“Evidently, my dear Watson.”

“Funny, I always pictured myself as Sherlock, and you as Watson.”

“Well that was  _rather_ silly of you. And incorrect...” Jemma sounded a bit distracted. “Anyways, that’s not why I called…” Her voice trailed off. There was a quiet tension being drawn between them the longer the silence drifted, like a net off a boat, capturing his breath in his throat.

“...Why then?” He asked thickly.

“I..” She inhaled, the pause heavy, “I...want you...”

Fitz gulped. _Had she just-?_ How should he-? What should he-? _Right now ?_

“Me as well,” he breathed softly into the phone, just as she’d rushed to add -

“To come to my lab tomorrow -”

“-would like that. As well. Me...um. That’s uh, what I meant. I’d love to...um,” _Fuck_ , he’d bolloxed it up. _Again_. He bit the inside of his cheek and banged his forehead against the wall.

“...Oh, Fitz.” Her voice was a caress, furred and warm through the phone, but tinged strangely with...something desperate? Something like despair? _Or maybe…_ “I think I need you. More than anyone else.”

This time, Fitz couldn’t stop the whimper that escaped his lips, and squeezed his eyes shut. Was he dreaming?

“I keep thinking about your hands - the way they work.”

He groaned long and sustained, wishing he wasn’t and knowing he had to be dreaming, he had to be -

“I’m dreaming right now, aren’t I?”

“ -They’re brilliant, your designs! And they’re not the only things I keep thinking about -”

She was speaking in such strange fits and starts. Her words were like some heady mixture, urging him so close to the brink, and then easing off into the mundane before barrelling him straight to the edge again, so close to declaring himself.

“The way you talked about dispersal mechanisms,” she continued. “I just keep thinking how...amazing, really, it would be, for you to get your hands on...on my body-” She sighed, and then seemed to catch herself - maybe she’d gotten sleepy? Lost her train of thought? But she’d snapped back suddenly, her voice professional - “Body of work, I mean.”

“...Yeah. Yeah,” Fitz agreed, trying not to let the frustrated whine that scratched up his neck and furrowed his brow come through in his voice. “That would be, um.. _._ _ideal_ _._ Yeah. Get my hands on your body... _Of work_! Of course.”

“ _Yes_ _!_ ” She seemed suddenly a bit winded - her tone breathless and high. “...I’ve, um, I’ve convinced Skye to hack into the university’s computers and forge you a lab badge - so you can see what I’ve got, um, up close? Maybe help with the dispersal units? I just know that we’ll be twice as good together as we are apart.”

A relieved smile unfurled along his wide mouth. “Yeah,” he breathed, adoringly. “I think so too.”

“Meet me tomorrow morning? At Lance’s?”

Now that he was here, quietly padding across the tiny flat in sock feet, setting the box of scones on the crowded kitchen counter and sipping at his tea, he had to admit that perhaps ‘starting to’ wasn’t quite the most honest answer to Hunter’s question last night. _‘Half in love’_ maybe, or _‘completely infatuated with that goddess you call a sister,’_ would perhaps be a bit more accurate.

She curled foetal around her comforter, drawn up tight on the sofa, her cheeks puffed out and pink and her eyelashes fanned out in sleep. He noted the freckles on her face through her fall of hair and wished, not for the first time, that he had the opportunity and the intimacy to count them, one by one, dotting her face with kisses as he rattled off their number.

He sighed, achingly, watching her breathe in and out, watching her dream, and wondering what it might feel like to wake up with her like this, curled around her body, the press of her back against him as she stirred…

A tiny groan eeked out his mouth, and he dragged a hand heavily down through his curls and over his stubble, scrubbing harshly. He had to rid himself from these impossible daydreams. She’d made it clear what she wanted from him. She wanted him for his science. For his mind. His hands.

Suddenly, an image of them together reeled behind his eyes. _His hand, mere millimeters over her skin, close enough to feel the heat of her as she stretched to wakefulness, his fingertips stroking worshipfully down, over her hips, dipping below the lazily strewn sheet, delving softly between her legs, feeling through the thatch of curls -_

“Get a hold of yer self, man!” he whispered harshly to himself, wrenching his gaze away from her and pivoting where he stood to lean his palms against the sink. “It’s a scientific partnership that mutually benefits us both. That’s all it’s ever going to be.”

Jemma’s head was pounding. Somehow in the night, she’d managed to flop back onto the sofa, cutting off circulation to her left arm. Now it was pins and needles as she struggled to get blood and feeling back.

It wasn’t just her arm that felt bloodless though. Her whole body felt shaky and weak. She hadn’t had a hangover like this in a long time. She couldn’t remember the last time (before the previous night) that she’d had to run to the bathroom, retching up the vile dregs of alcohol and bile that her system had authoritatively denied.

Luckily, however, her constitution was generally quite good, so at this point, instead of feeling as though her day would be a bed-ridden one with nothing but warm bedclothes and water for comfort until she became human again, she felt moderately alive and able to reason. She snuggled further into the bedclothes, hugging her comforter tighter around her ears, She yawned, and sucked in a snarled tangle of hair that had fallen over her face in the night. She could feel the mascara caked on her lashes and in the creases of her eyelids, and the parched dryness of her mouth. With an extended whine, she raked a hand through her bedraggled hair, and proceeded to roll, unceremoniously off of the couch, her head hitting the side of the metal mixing bowl she’d dragged from Lance’s room when she’d moved. Bobbi had christened it her ‘puke bowl’, though, thankfully, especially in this instance, Jemma had not actually ‘set sail’ in it.

The bowl clanged loudly, and she heard a short high-pitched scream coming from the kitchen. Immediately awake and terrified, she clattered to standing, half her hair sticking up on end, her comforter clutched tightly around her like it was some sort of force-field.

“What are you doing here?”

Fitz gaped at her, his mouth opening and closing a few times. “...You called me?”

Jemma stared for a moment, remembering her fingers dialing the numbers.

“...So I came?” he added, the words hanging taut in the silence. “I brought scones?” With the guilty face of a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, he motioned to the few small crumbs that littered the bottom of the box. “But...I got hungry.”

“Oh,” Jemma nodded rapidly, “Yes. _Right_. I called you. Last night. And asked you to come over…” She assumed she had, or else why would he be here? She pulled the blanket tighter to her body, feeling oddly naked. Her cheeks burned as she remembered words like ‘hands on my body’ and ‘I need you’, and ‘I want you’ and she tried to parse out specifics from the way his eyes lingered over her, so, so endlessly blue, but his expression was unreadable.

“I’ll just...change.”

She turned on her heel and waddled back into Lance’s room. What had she said last night? What had she _done_? And he’d brought tea and scones?

Fitz carefully set the empty box on the overfull bin and sucked at the tea that had dribbled down his wrist. He had expected her to be altogether a bit less surprised to see him, especially after giving him the location of her spare key, but she had to have remembered their conversation.

He patted down the front of his navy blue button-down, and attempted to straighten the tie he wore. He was just making a hash of everything. Just mucking it all up, like he always did. He tried to remember his mum’s advice in situations like this - it always seemed to help. “Just breathe. Wait and see what happens. And for god’s sake, don’t shit yourself!”

Wise woman, his mum.

Jemma hurriedly wrapped herself up in her dressing gown and burst out of Lance’s room, quickly grabbing the first items she could from her dresser before bolting into the bathroom and turning on the shower.

A nice hot shower would be marvelous to ease her muscles, so warped and stiff from lying funny on the couch all night. Almost like a massage - _warm hands pressing hard, kneading at the finials of her spine -_

“ _Oh no_ Jemma, none of  _that_. Not until we know what we actually said last night,” she told her reflection, casting off her dressing gown. This was a mission. A test really. It was easier if she thought about it that way. If she imagined a grade at the end. Something nice and neat and easily calculated.

“So!” Jemma called out through the crack in the door, “About that phone call -”

“I just want you to know I agree with what you said,” Fitz shouted, her voice startling him to action, against his absent mother’s advice. “I do think we’re better when we’re together.”

Jemma inhaled sharply, shocked - _Well, that cleared things up, didn’t it? Everything, really._ If only she’d realized sooner that the inhibitions of alcohol and the close vicinity of a telephone would provide such clear results, why, she would have attempted it much sooner! _With a proper control group and data collection before ever actually **attempting** _ _-attempting it. Obviously. One must be sure_. However, recklessness, for once, seemed to have stood her in good stead -

“Scientifically speaking, of course -” he continued, waving his paper cup about as his words sloshed and spilled out on top of themselves.

“The dendrotixin formula could serve a variety of uses - both weaponized and medical, if it were ever to be rendered stable. Though of course you’re brilliant enough, in a few years, with the right funding... But - I uh, I drew up some prototypes - Took the liberty last night - Couldn’t sleep, thinking about your body - _I mean_ , body of work, obviously. Wouldn’t do to be thinking about your body, now would it?“

His titter was brittle as he continued. “That would just be-” he cut off in a choke.  “-And _so unprofessional_ , especially in a, a uh, working relationship-” Whatever it was still seemed to be caught in his throat. “-And I want you to know I’d never want to impune that.” Another cough and then a deep breath. “Science is, well...Science is just, it’s -really, it’s uh…” He snapped his fingers ineffectually, searching for the word.

“-Sacred,” she supplied, dejectedly.

“Yeah! _Sacred_. Science is sacred. So you can count on me to be a proper and respectful lab partner.”

Jemma stuck her head out of the bathroom door, her grin tight and bright. “Wonderful,” she said, forcing cheerfulness. “I’ll just be two ticks.”

Sucking her breath into her chest, she shut the door hard and jumped under the hot, steaming spray of the shower head. Tilting her face up to feel the sting, she tried to wash away her foolish feelings. She banged her head futilely against the tile, and swallowed the sudden thickness in her throat, chastising her weakness.

He’d made it clear, over and over again, that he was hardly interested in her outside of her mind. That he did not fancy her physically in the least. That any attraction she felt was purely one-sided, regardless of the way his gaze hooked into her lower belly and drew her like a fish on a line towards him, or the way her skin tingled against his.

“I don’t think I can help it,” she murmured, despondent.

 

* * *

  
At the front desk sat a truly cro-magnon looking beast of a man. His nose looked to have been broken at least once or twice before from the crooked set of it, and his muscles puckered the seams of his jacket.

Fitz cleared his throat and self consciously re-arranged his tie. “Are you sure Skye managed it?” he asked Jemma out of the corner of his mouth, offering the guard and awkward smile and a nod.

“She said she’d get to it this morning. She’s an early riser, so I’m sure it’s already been taken care of.” She crinkled her nose and smiled reassuringly, striding forward towards the hulking security guard.

“Good morning Geordie! Happy Saturday! Pulling in some extra shifts?”

“Doctor Simmons! I’ll be! Yer looking quite nice this mornin’,” the neanderthal grunted. Fitz frowned. He should have mentioned that, back at the flat, but he’d been too caught up with not laughing at the adorable way her hair had stuck up, and the way her blanket was wrapped all about her. God, she was a beautiful creature, to make even a hangover look ravishing.   _Stop thinkin’ that way, Fitz. This is not about that. She’s not interested, and you promised to be a gentleman_ , he told himself sternly, his frown growing deeper.

“-He should be in there - A Mr. Leopold Fitz?”

“I said it before, Doctor, an’ you know how I like you, an’ all, but I can’ go makin’ exceptions,” Geordie pleaded.

“Of course, of course.” Jemma nodded. “It’s just, so very odd. I’ll just run to the phone booth and have a quick chat with our supervisor.”

Jemma turned crisply on her heel, grabbing Fitz’s arm as she strode past. “Time for some bad girl shenanigans.”

“Jemma, no.” Fitz intoned, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline.

“Jemma, _yes_ ,” She declared, steely-gazed.

One very miffed call to one very hungover Skye later, and while a hack was not in order, a bomb threat was, which called Geordie off of the front desk and out past where Fitz and Jemma were hiding behind a tree. 

Ensuring they weren’t being seen, they ran into the foyer, Fitz slipping around the desk quickly to fiddle with some wires and tap at the keyboard for a second, looping the camera feed.

“Computer engineering? I thought -”

“I couldn’t quite decide what I loved more -”

“-I had the same-”

“Aeronautics, Mechanical, Quantum, computer -”

“Is that why you -”

“Don’t have my PhD yet? Yeah, kept jumping around. Nearly have four, but don’t even have one _actual_ one yet.”

“Oh, Fitz,” Jemma declared with a groan and an exasperated roll of her eyes, slipping her hand into his to pull him from his perch.

He realized, trailing after her, watching her long brown hair bop merrily against her back as she ran, that he’d be happy to do this, just this, the rest of his life. Follow her. Be in her orbit.

She threw a dazzling smile at him over her shoulder, and suddenly his chest felt tight and full and hollow and bursting all at once, and he smiled back, awestruck, as she tugged him into a darkened lab. A long strip of windows on the other side of the room gave view to a hallway, and in between the windows and where they stood thrumming with excitement and panting with exertion, were workstations and file cabinets, computer stations and a long table.

Their eyes seemed to catch against one another, their gazes frictioning to stillness and their smiles slowly, ever so slowly, fading. Their chests rose and fell in the same heavy pattern, even though their feet no longer moved. Jemma’s heart beat out a fast tap in her chest as her eyes drifted from his to the open bow of his lips - those perfect lips -

“Bloody prank calls - could be sommat important, but Christ Almighty -” Geordie’s loud complaints preceded the fast clomping of his feet, and the circle of his torchlight passed inches from where Fitz stood.

Thinking quickly, he surged forward, sweeping his arms up around Jemma’s waist and rushing her back against the wall, behind a row of tall, slim filing cabinets. His mouth was hot against the shell of her ear and his breath was moist and intoxicating as he whispered, “ _Shhh_ _!_ ”

She tried to hide her shudder with a nod but could barely move with the long line of his body pressed in against her, keeping her motions contained. The bright beam of Geordie’s torch flashed closer, and Jemma dug her nails into Fitz’s shoulder and lower back, fisting her hands into the fabric of his button down to drag him tighter, away from that awful light.

His chest ground against her breasts, and she could feel her nipples hardening against the pressure, her thumb slipping carelessly into the collar of his shirt. His skin felt molten under the quick brush of her hand, and she couldn’t quite make out the sound he’d made against the flesh of her throat, but she didn’t care - not with the way his thigh slotted so perfectly between hers, pressing so tightly against her zipper, every micro-movement snaking arousal to coil at her core.

Jemma bit her lip, her hands moving of their own accord,fingers stroking up the back of his neck into the tiny, curling hairs at his nape. His breath was hot and his mouth was open, and his forehead fell heavily into the juncture of her shoulder, the wet, warm curl of his exhalation licking against her collarbone.

He curled around her, encompassing her, surprised that his slim frame seemed to dwarf her so. She was so small in his arms, and she seemed to tremble under his touch. For a tiny moment, the rush of blood drowned out the sounds around him, so all he could sense was the way she felt in his arms, shuddery and taut and pulling him in closer, holding him to her so desperately, as if - as if she wanted him.

A small groan slipped past his lips and ghosted against her skin. “ _Jemma._..”

Her fingers dragged furrows through his messy strip of curls, and he sank into her further, pressing his forehead against her clavicle and breathing deeply the scent of her. His eyes fell closed as he shifted his thighs and heard her tiny sigh.

The footsteps stilled outside, and the static sound of a walkie-talkie filled the quiet. “All clear in Labs A through F,” Geordie intoned. “Heading back to my post now.”

Fitz’s arms wreathed around her even tighter, his fingers splayed wide and dragging against the column of her ribs, trying to memorize the exact dimensions of her waist and stomach and the way her body curved pliantly beneath him. He could kiss her, he thought. Inhale the milimeters that separated his lips from her shoulder fraction by fraction and press hotly against her skin. He watched gooseflesh rise with each exhale of his breath, and yearned to soothe it calm with the wet drag of his tongue.  

His hand seemed to rise of its own volition, angling closer and closer to the underside of her her breast, and she trembled so prettily in his arms -

Fitz’s head rose, his tangle of curls drifting softly against her forehead as he tore his eyes from her throat to her eyes, unable to stop glancing between them and her lips. Confusedly, she darted her tongue out to moisten them. Would he kiss her? His pupils were blown wide, and his open, panting mouth was so close.  All she had to do was arch her back, move to her tiptoes... Her breast would carelessly brush against his teasing thumb, and her lips would break against his, and she’d probably shatter into a million tiny pieces, here, on the floor of her lab -

He suddenly wrenched from her grasp as if he were in pain, stumbling backwards over his own feet. He recovered clumsily and gestured at the large cork boards, pinned with bad sketches and model blueprints. “-So this, uh,” he coughed, attempting to lighten his deep, husky brogue. “This is the initial mock-up, I’m thinkin’?”


	13. Last Caress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The long awaited Chapter 13!!
> 
> After Fitz and Jemma spend the weekend working in the lab, Fitz is left with some unresolved tension. He tries to take the situation in hand, but numerous interruptions make it hard to do. Jemma, meanwhile, witnesses something she was never meant to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, let me just apologize absolutely PROFUSELY for the lack of update these past two weeks! Real life got in thw way of fandom, and a lot like Fitz, I kept getting interrupted by various things needing my attention.
> 
> That said, this chapter is payback for Pi, and a little present for all of you. Keep in mind, this is definitely not safe for work!
> 
> THE SMUT IS STRONG WITH THIS ONE.
> 
> *coughs* ahem.
> 
> YUR WELCOM I LOVE YOU.

* * *

 

Over the hours they spent in the lab that weekend (thanks to Skye’s hack of the authorization list when her hangover abated Saturday afternoon) Fitz and Jemma fell into a kind of shorthand.

She stood against his side to roll up his sleeves when he began operating the metal sander, hands busy. When she’d bend over the microscope, her hair falling into her eyes, he’d come behind her, lean in close, and gather her hair in his hands, quickly making a ponytail.

He’d notice her arching onto her tip-toes for a high beaker and would reach out a hand, soft on her lower back, to steady her. Then, he’d reach up around her, the tips of his fingers lingering against the curve of her spine, and pull it down for her. She’d blink up through her lashes, and smile a small, thankful smile, and his would answer, relieved.

Personal space seemed to shrink in the small lab. Hands trailed against backs and elbows as one of them passed behind the other - a silent nod to their movements, so as not to startle the other - and in Fitz’s case, at least, to feed some small addiction he’d developed, feeling the soft firmness of her under his hands.

After almost two days of near-constant touching, of mindful banter - that she could more than keep up with, bless - of building on brilliant ideas, one after the other, he could hardly be blamed for the distinctly...ungentlemanly thoughts his brain had begun to entertain when he entered the empty garage Sunday evening. If he was honest with himself, it wasn’t the first time he’d found his mind wandering, remembering snatches of phrases she’d spoken, or marveling over an elegantly drawn solution to their concentration and stabilization issues. Or, since he was being honest, about the way her breasts puckered the buttoned front of her shirt, pulling teasingly against the fabric as she peered over his shoulder to look at the green text on the black screen of the large Macintosh computer.

It wasn’t even the first time he’d had to conveniently turn around and bend over to feign careful interest in something on the lab table while he rearranged his half-hard cock in his jeans, trying to hide his near constant state of arousal. However, it was the first time that he’d exhaled harshly in relief as he entered the darkened garage, fell heavily against the hood of a propped up Chevy, and stroked his hand tightly over the tented crotch of his jeans. He was breathing harshly as he ran his hand up over the rough material, imagining it were hers, unable to fight the images that streamed through his mind: her perfect pink lips, those tiny delicate hands that made everything she held look so much bigger -

He whimpered hard and dropped his forehead on top of the cool metal hood -

“Hey!” Mack called, coming around from the locker room door near the office. “That you, man?”

Stuttering suddenly to a stop, Fitz haphazardly rearranged himself, slipping off the hood and hoping the shadowed shop floor would hide the noticeable line arcing against his fly. “-Eh, yep. S’me. What uh, what’re you doin’ here? So late, I mean?”

“Just finishing up with some of the American models. That Chevy’s gonna be purring like a kitten when I’m done with her,” - _Jemma, bent over the hood, her hands scrabbling for purchase, the long column of her throat, her head tossed back, twisting and writhing as he worked her beneath him, arching her back obscenely as his tongue swiped against her clit, moaning and purring -_

Fitz bit back a frustrated sob, and nodded quickly. “Yeah. Yup. Beautiful. Mhmm.”

“You alright, man?” Mack raised an astute eyebrow.

“What! Me? I am - I am completely fine. _Utterly_ fine. _Normal_. Yep. Nothin’ out of the ordinary.”

“... _Alright_.” Mack’s grin twitched knowingly at the corner. “I’m gonna head out. You should toss that milk in the fridge. It’s got chunks, man. It’s gross.”

“Will do, boss,” Fitz said with an awkward salute, waving continually as Mack ambled out, locking up behind him.

Fitz exhaled harshly, his stride frustrated as he reached the fridge. Quickly grabbing the milk from the shelf, he poured it down the sink. He threw the container quickly in the bin before rushing into the office, taking a few extra moments to peer around the door before pulling it closed with a slam. He wasn’t exactly interested in being...interrupted...again.

He flipped the lock and drew the blinds, flopping indecorously onto the couch, drawing one knee up and letting his other foot dangle, brushing the floor.

His eyelids dropped closed as his hands quickly worked at his buttoned fly, pulling down the zip with a tight, short moan. He rubbed against the swelling ridge of his cock through his jeans, letting his mind flood with thoughts of her -

_That tiny little red tartan skirt -_

Rub. Pull.

_So fucking short,almost showing the curve of her arse._

The cotton of his boxers was half-scratching him as he squeezed himself tight.

He inhaled sharply, his cock twitching inside his slow, determined grip. He couldn’t believe he was getting off to thoughts of his lab partner - fucking hot lab partner, sure but, oh - what had she said? Science is sacred? _More like sexy_ , he thought, imagining her in that tiny little kilt and her lab coat, buttoned just at her breasts, that fire-engine red bra he’d caught glimpses of peeking through every time she moved.

His mind wandered back to a moment earlier that afternoon.

_Jemma fiddles with a finicky telescope, her loose fall of hair spilling over her shoulder, tendrils licking at her skin. He steps close, taking the opportunity to run his fingertips, feather-light, against the nape of her neck and into her scalp - slow, savouring the shiver he draws from her skin._

He gathered her hair into a ponytail, but instead of quickly tying it off with an elastic and stepping back as he did so many times in the lab, his mind took a distinctly different turn.

_His fingers close tightly around the tail he’s swept up, and he invades her personal space, stepping up tight against her side, and softly but inexorably, pulling her ponytail to expose the column of her throat to him. She whimpers quietly, sinking against his body when his lips find the sensitive spot near the juncture of her throat. He drags the tip of his nose up against her skin, inhaling that coconut scent as she turns in his arms, arching up into him, hip to hip. He surges forward, trapping her against the lab table._

His dick is rock hard, and the teeth of his zipper are starting to bite against its sensitive skin. With a grunt, Fitz hooks his thumbs in his belt loops and pulls his jeans halfway down his thighs, sighing in relief as his cock springs free, bouncing a little against the cotton of boxers. Slipping his hand past the elastic, he grips himself, and with a slow swipe up, he rubs the small drops of precum forming on the head of his dick, sliding them down to lubricate his movements.

_She cries out softly against him as he ruts up against her center, driving up into that spot that had made her squirm before, when they were hiding from the torchlight, and watches her eyelids flutter closed in sudden pleasure. She takes his face in her hands, pressing fleeting, needy kisses against his jaw, his cheek, his eyelids, his forehead, before urgently pressing her half-parted lips against his. He slides his tongue against her bottom lip, and hers meets his - tentative at first, and then ardent._

_“I want you,” She pants when their kiss breaks, and he drops back to capture her mouth, his tongue delving deeply. His hands make quick work of the buttons on her lab coat, mere centimeters from the hardened nubs of her nipples against that just-a-touch-too-tight blouse -_

_**BBBBRRRRIIIINNNNGGGGGGG- BBBBRRRRIIIINNNNGGGGGGG** _

Fitz’s harsh inhales seized in his chest, startled out of his heady daydream by the discordant ring of the shop telephone. His head banged heavily against the couch arm, once, twice, three times, with every shrill ring that sounded.

When finally it ceased, he breathed a deep sigh of relief and began to settle in again, watching as his thumb swiped over the head of his cock, twisting on the downward drag to press against the vein on the underside, his precum helping slick each pass.

His eyes drifted closed, and he began to call up the image where he’d left it -

_His hands scraping roughly against her buttoned blouse, up towards her straining tits -_

_**BBBBRRRRIIIINNNNGGGGGGG- BBBBRRRRIIIINNNNGGGGGGG** _

“Fer _Fucks_ sake!” Fitz cried, a pleading whine in his voice as he slapped at the couch. It kept ringing. After waiting for it to shut up, he finally gave up in aggravation, tucking his rock hard cock back into his boxers, tugging his jeans back over his bum, and then reaching for the phone in one swift movement.

“Mack’s Garage, we’re closed,” he grunted unhappily before mumbling, “...how c’n I ‘elp ya?”

"I'll pay you a hundred an hour if you can fix the walk in freezer.  Temperature's shot and I can't make heads or tails of the damn thing. The connected beer fridge is going too, the piece of crap.  You'd save my life and I’ll give you cash. Come on Fitz," Izzy said shortly.

Fitz looked down at his hard, cotton-covered dick poking through his fly, and then he considered how he was living on a couch in the office of a garage. With a heavy sigh, he agreed.

* * *

 

At this point, Fitz’s largest worry was chafing. His dick seemed resolute. It was steadfastly hard. He hoped that the long, plaid cut-off shirt he wore was adequately hiding the firm bulge from sight. He’d even layered a heavy, patched jean vest over top to add some weight, and he sent up a silent prayer that he could go on about his business in peace, and then, maybe, steal a private moment in one of the bathroom stalls…

Or _the_ bathroom stall. He squeezed his eyes together and whimpered, pausing just outside the back door to the Queen Victoria.

“This is going to be problematic.” He tilted his head to look at his crotch. “Don’t embarrass me,” he muttered at his straining fly. Steeling himself, he pushed open the door.

Fitz marched briskly through the halls toward the bar, where Vic was running a hand through Izzy’s hair in a private, intimate moment, trying to calm her fiery lover down. “He’ll be here. It’ll get fixed. We’ll be fine if the kitchen orders stay at this pace.  We just won’t open the freezer any more than we have to, and we push beers on tap, baby, that’s all. It’s going to be _fine_ ,” she crooned, pressing a soft kiss to Izzy’s temple.

Fitz cleared his throat, startling the lovers apart. "Sorry. I just need to find the toolbox?"

He made vague motions around until Vic nodded, and then she added, "Under the sink in the Men's."

Fitz nodded and left, happy that they were far too busy with themselves to notice the horrific bulge in his pants. They were lesbians - they didn't even like that sort of thing . It would be even more of an insult, him with his turgid erection, he thought, wandering distractedly towards the toilets.

That was when he saw her reflection through the open door to the Women's, leaning, sway-backed and shirtless, scrubbing hard at a stain on her top. Two girls were holding open the door as they gabbed, unconcerned with the peep show they were administering for one Leo Fitz.

Jemma's shirt was laid out beside the sinks as she stood  in profile to him. Her tits were encased in something gauzy and baby pink and sheer, and God, the motion of her firm scrub thrust her tits together in the mirror, pushing her cleavage high and tight between them.

His cock ached painfully, stretching rock hard against his fly. Fitz's head fell silently backward and he stared at the ceiling, pleading for grace as he bit back a whimper and attempted to adjust himself. He stole one last look at her reflection in the mirror and then hurried past, into the blessedly empty Men's.

Fitz bee-lined straight for that fateful stall, slamming the door shut and slipping the lock. Roughly, he pushed his jeans and pants down his thighs and leaned heavily forward against the cool metal. His cock bounced against his belly as he shifted his feet, the precum leaving a tiny, sticky patch on his skin.

His imagination took a slightly different turn when Fitz squeezed his eyes shut this time.

_“I want you,” Jemma says, her hands sliding down his thighs as she kneels in front of his bobbing cock. “I want you in my mouth.”_

_Her hands are circling closer and closer to his heavy balls, carding through the short curls to tease him, weighing them one by one, rolling them together. “But only bad girls do that.”_

_She looks up at him, her dark eyes wide, biting her lip._

_“Do what? Say it,” he insists, his hands making a ponytail of her loose hair as she nuzzles his cock, rubbing her cheek against it, pressing maddeningly hot, chaste little close-mouthed kisses to the base and the underside. “What do bad girls do, Jemma?”_

_“They suck gentlemen’s pricks, Sir.” Her eyes are downcast._

_“But good girls do what they’re told, don’t they?” FItz leads, his thumb stroking against her temple._

_She nods, her tongue sneaking out to take a tiny, surreptitious swipe against his rigid dick._

_“And you want to be a good girl, don’t you, Jemma?”_

_“More than anything, Sir.” She nods rapidly, wanting to please him. “I like following rules and doing what’s expected of me.”_

_“Then be a good girl, Jemma. Suck me off.” Fitz orders, pushing against the back of her head, gently guiding her mouth down onto his cock._

_“Oh yes, Sir,” she moans, taking him in both hands and slurping him into her mouth. Her lips form a seal around the head of his cock, sucking hard, her tongue swiping tiny little licks against the tip, collecting precum as she descend further on him._

_She’s firm and hot, and her mouth is so wet, and he is so ready. Using his grip on her hair to position her just the way he likes, he’s so close now. Watching her drag her tongue in one, long, greedy swipe against the vein, like she wants all of him to herself, giving into the abandon, on her knees in front of him -_

“Fitz?” Vic calls from the door. “You found it?”

Fitz squeezed himself tight, painfully tight, stopping the mounting orgasm that he was so close to achieving. He shouted, exasperation taking over his tone, “ _Jaysus_ , Mary, and Joseph, Vic! Can’ a man have five minute’s peace? _Five minutes!?_ ”

Vic left without another word.

* * *

 

Jemma managed, with some club soda and a helpful girl’s dry shampoo, to scrub the hidden, but still viscous, plasma stain clean off her new cashmere sweater. It wouldn’t be perfect, but it would do until she could get it to Trudi. The woman was a wizard with stains of all sorts - which was a boon when one was, as Jemma often was, covered in chemical stains, biological fluids, and test dyes on a regular basis.

Shrugging the sweater back on, she shoved her hands into the pockets of her high-waisted, pleated khakis, and strolled out of the bathroom.

Vic was at the bar. Jemma waved to her and skipped over, enthusiastically. “Hello Vic! Lance sent me to pick up the keys to the truck. He said he left them with you?”

Vic nodded, “Yeah, but I took it to Mack’s Garage to get detailed after a flat of beer exploded in the back, soaked the walls. It smelled like a wino after a two-week bender in there. Mack said he’d leave the keys on the hook in the locker room when I went to close up, so they’re probably there, if you want to pop around. I bet Fitz’d be happy to see you.” She attempted a scandalous wink, but couldn’t quite manage - it ended up being a slow and awkward blink, instead.

Jemma blushed heavily anyways, casting her eyes away as she pushed her hair behind her ears. “Alright. Yes. I’ll go check. Thanks.”

With a backwards wave, Jemma hurried out of the pub, running home to change her shirt before the stain set. it’d give poor Trudi a devil of a time as it was.

 

* * *

 

“Hello?” Jemma called to the empty, darkened garage. Quietly, she flicked on a flood light, and stepped in, craning her head to look for her lab partner. “Fitz?”

The office’s blinds were drawn tight she could see, as she came up past an American model car. There was a light on inside, and so she knocked, patiently. No one answered. With a shrug, she moved on. He must be busy elsewhere.

A drumming sort of sound was coming from the locker room to her left. Curious, she padded forward, unsure of why she felt the need for stealth, but knowing, unconsciously, that she should be as quiet as possible.

She pushed the door open to a wall of steam. It flooded past the row of lockers. The air was thick with it, and she suddenly understood what the drumming noise was - it was the coursing of shower spray against tile.

Furtively, she darted past the row of lockers towards the mirrored counter by the back door, where a row of keys hung. Carefully averting her eyes from anything that could be reflected, she pocketed Lance’s keys, and turned to go.

Her breath caught in her throat.

She couldn’t see much, but what she had seen, she couldn’t unsee. _More’s the pity_ , she thought, biting her lip and sneaking up to the tiled wall that separated the locker room from the showers. They were open, with a row of shower heads installed into the walls at intervals, and there, under a spray so hot it flushed his pale, tattooed skin wherever it hit, was Fitz.

_Naked. Wet._

Jemma gulped, plastering her body tight against the tile as she tilted her head around to get a better look.

He was leaning heavily on one arm, turned half away from her, breathing in heavy, hitched moans. Water ran in tiny rivers, splashing hard against his inked shoulders and coursing down the hemispheres of his curved back and  down the arch of his spine.  His skin was pale and flawless and blemish free, like he’d been carved by some Italian in the sixteenth century. The curve of his perfect arse creased into his slim but well formed thighs, and when he adjusted his stance, her breath hitched again.

_His hand - is he...is he wanking?_

Jemma pulled back, flattening herself even further against the tile. Forcefully, she demanded herself to show some decorum, to not be such a bloody pervert, and to leave her lab partner, to whom science was sacred - as it was to her - alone and respectfully unmolested by her ravishing gaze.

_...Just one more quick little look. For...reference._ It couldn’t hurt, she reasoned, wetting her bottom lip with her tongue as she turned around once more, spying on his private moment.

He’d turned slightly, and she was blessed with a glimpse of his naked form in profile. The entirety of his tattooed body open to her view. Water clung in tiny droplets to the heavy burr of curls. One by one, they would drop, slide down his nose, and fall, breaking against his panting lips.

His hand worked furiously against the thick cock he gripped. It was girthier than she’d anticipated, and perhaps not quite as long, but still, certainly...above average, Jemma noted She stood entranced,. watching the quick, hard snap and twist of his wrist with each stroke, memorizing how his thumb swiped over the flushed, purpling head of his cock, the way the precum oozed down, glistening along his length as he worked himself over.

She nearly whimpered, watching his thighs shake as he grunted, “ _Yesss_. S'brillian', _ughn_.”

Her nipples hardened against the cashmere of her sweater, and she pressed harder into the unforgiving tile.

“Fuck, yes, _oh shite_ , yes, _oh yes_ ,” he crooned, getting vocal as his cheeks flushed and his balls began to draw up. His rhythm broke as his hips surged forward, hard and rough into the tight grip of his hand.

His whole body quivered and shook as he tensed, arching, like every ounce of feeling was pouring out of him through the tip of his cock, peeking rapidly in and out of his palm.

“Oh _fuck_ , yes, _ughn_ -” he grunted. “ _Jemma!_ ”

Suddenly, streams of thick, white cum spurted from the head of his dick as he pounded into his hand, and they splattered over the shower wall. His hand dropped, exhausted and nerveless, as his cock continued to spurt half against his chest. His knees gave out, and he sank to the shower floor. His hand drifted back to his dick as he milked the last few drops from himself, not caring as cum landed against his lower belly and was washed away immediately under the hot stream of the shower head.

“ _Holy fucking shit,_ ” Jemma whispered to herself. Feeling the wetness pooling between her thighs, she struggled to force her legs to work, clamouring as quietly as she could out of the locker room and through the shop, so she could get home and proceed to masturbate furiously.


	14. Pink Turns to Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Jemma decides to clarify things with Fitz, her plans go awry. A missing notebook, argyle socks, and a furtive mission in the middle of the night, also star in this chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to Notapepper, who happened to be a darling pinch-hit beta in the nick of time! I was dying to post this chapter, and while my most darling of darlings, Pi was a bit busy with real life things today, I just couldn't stop myself from posting today. Luckily, these two amazing ladies were a sheer delight, saving me from many a comma-splice and awkward clause!

The issue, Jemma realized, was in the timing.

How did one possibly bring up the fact that, due to an accident of circumstance… and some...eavesdropping (rather intensive eavesdropping, which led to a few repeat performances of her own, if she were honest), that one was aware of the other person’s feelings for oneself and that one was rather encouraged to explore said feelings with said other person (and perhaps more)?

She had entertained a number of increasingly ridiculous possibilities:

  1. **A note**  
As one would have taken it upon oneself to write in the primary years, if one had not been in a highly accelerated program and had not been already midway through her first degree with peers ten years her senior at the time. Something like:



 

> _“Dear Fitz,_
> 
> _It has come to my attention that you perhaps harbour feelings of affection that far outweigh_
> 
> _mutual scientific appreciation and a general warmth of feeling (as one does toward one’s friends)_
> 
> _for me. I would be interested in pursuing avenues of exploration in such a manner, forthwith,_
> 
> _should that prove to be in accordance to your own will and consent._
> 
> _Would you like to be my boyfriend? Circle one:_
> 
> _Yes_
> 
> _No_
> 
> _Maybe”_

**2\. A helpful friend**  
as one might use during an alcohol-fueled romp through the London club scene. However, she remembered then that her self-appointed wingwoman was Skye, and that this meant three things:

  * Should she engineer an outing with said engineer, that outing would of course include Trip; and,
  * While Skye was an amazing friend, in their friendship landscape, Skye would always be Ferris, and she would always be Cameron; and,
  * Were there gentlemen or ladies to woo, Skye would more than likely be the one singing Danke Shoen on a float, as opposed to Jemma.



That was not to say that Skye would not beg, plead, or insist that Jemma appear on said float, singing said song, but that Jemma would run, screaming in terror, while Skye valiantly stepped into the limelight, belting out her voice in epic song and ridiculous circumstance, and all the world would end up in love with her, as rightly they should.

3. **A confession of attraction**

Her past attempts had all seemed to go rather well, though they had been brief, and with men of much lower IQ and larger muscles, who seemed generally best able to respond to simple commands, such as “Kiss me,” and “Come home with me, now,” and “Take my clothes off."

Which was rather in direct opposition to the heart-felt confession of interest she feared would spill out of her when faced with Fitz’s open, intelligent eyes, all soft lashes and full of feeling - or his mouth, which spoke such brilliance and such self-censure - He’d ask why. Or just silently wait until she had finished her speech, which, when faced with such silence, her anxiety would insist she fill the empty space with words.

Worst of all, she knew she would, and then it’d all spill from from her, all the reasons why she liked him, and why she couldn’t stop thinking about him, and how he made her feel safe and dangerous all at the same time, and how he made her feel as though she were unbreakable, and brilliant, and like what she said mattered, and how she wanted to be around him every day, every instant, and how she found herself wandering the streets, or overhearing a funny line, and thinking, “Fitz would have laughed at that,” or “Fitz would say that boy’s paper airplane was a perfect example of how physics education should be taught.”

She wouldn’t be able to stopper the words, and it would all come out, how she craved his good opinion and his sound advice, and how she often thought about his hands, and how they would feel closing around hers, and what his voice would sound like, rumbling up through his ribcage, while her head was pillowed against his chest, listening to his heart beat. Or how it would be to fall asleep beside him. Would he tangle his feet with hers? Would he press in tight and hold her in his sleep-slack arms, all hot breaths and sweet dreams and tranquil thoughts? Would it feel like home?

Jemma blushed bright red at the thought, and quite quickly, struck the third possibility off her list. It would be a horrid choice.

She cringed. No one wanted to hear all that, really. All that men wanted, in her experience, was to be told how brilliant they were, and how big their muscles were, and how they were one’s hero, and how one wished they would sweep one off their feet to a whole different reality, where one didn’t lift a finger and they did all the heavy lifting and deep thinking. They wanted to be showered in love and adoration, and so deeply to be needed.

Jemma sighed. It seemed strange to her, that deep masculine desire to be needed. To perform some essential service for one’s life-mate, as though they were some sort of life-support, pumping blood and oxygen into veins, the inalterable dependency upon which their partner thrived. It seemed intolerably exhausting to her.

Why was it not more dizzying to be wanted, rather than needed? To be wanted implied the choice to want - the ‘in spite of’, the ‘regardless of living well and full, this is the life I want, with you, to share.’ To her, the choice was, in and of itself, such a romantic and defiant notion, that in spite of an independent life, one sought out another soul to share it with - to explore with. Jemma wanted to be that choice. She wanted to be the one someone wanted, not the one that someone needed to survive - and she didn’t want to have to rely on anyone that way either.

Perhaps it was simply that inherent malcontention which her father was always accusing her of, her desire to be defiantly independent, that a partnership in life, as in the lab, was infinitely more appealing. And Fitz…. he seemed to understand. At least she hoped - moreso than as simply an image to wank to - that she was his choice too.

What a terrifying and wonderful thought.

But what if she _wasn’t_?

What if, in the midst of confessing her feelings and her justification for the whole thing, he suddenly decided that she talked too much, or that she’d said too much? What if she scared him away?

She was rather taken aback, upon considering her feelings, as she sat, cross-legged on her bed, staring at the clothes in her closet, just exactly what they might mean.

She couldn’t be sure, of course...Honestly, she couldn’t even put words to much of it, only that it felt deeper and stranger than she had felt about other men in the past, and that it was just as much the way his muscles shifted under his tattoos as it was the way his mouth curled self-deprecatingly at the corners, and the way his eyes lit when talking about his mother, and how it hurt her like an ache when they dimmed, talking about his father.

Perhaps it wasn’t something that she could even state, as simply as all that. But it was something. She was sure. _Though, certainly not love._

She flopped back on her rumpled bed clothes, resting her head on her hands. “Not that.” She said aloud, hoping hearing the words would make things clearer in her mind. “Not yet. It’s too soon...I think.”

Perhaps it was a shade of it, though. A cell, multiplying little by little. If only it could be sampled, a tiny tissue of her heart put between the glass of a slide, and examined, thoroughly and without bias, under a microscope. Poked, prodded, tested against variables, control groups, and the like, then she could be sure.

One thing was certain though - words were out of the question. She blushed as an image of herself, stammering out her reasoning, laying herself bare in front of him, flashed through her mind.

 _I'd look so foolish_ , she chided herself, unable to admit how the thought of giving voice to those words made her feel more vulnerable than anything, and how it made her so much easier to hurt if he didn't feel the same.

 _It could_ , she reasoned, _simply have been the heat of the moment, lust, momentarily overtaking him_. Him saying her name in the culmination of passion could have simply signalled that - not that he necessarily wanted to be with her.

It was so hard to figure out how much to say, or how much to do, until she had the full picture of exactly what she meant to him. If there were a way to spur him to action, to get him to broach the topic first, then she could know just how much to say without tipping her hand.

If it was just sex - if that was all he wanted...well, she supposed, she could live with that. She could. She'd get it out of her system at least, and then throw herself back into work, instead of constantly being distracted by how he moved through the lab, or by the brow-pinched look of concentration when he played the drums, his face flushed with exertion.

And if it was more, well then, all the better. That only left option number four.

**4\. Seduction.**

She grabbed her phone, quickly punching in a few numbers. If she were to seduce Leo Fitz, she needed expert advice.

"Skye? I need to learn how to seduce a man."

An hour and a half later, and Jemma was dressed in a stretchy, wine-coloured, velvet pencil skirt that hugged her hips and a petal pink silk top that dipped into a low V, showing ample cleavage, and the long, delicate line of her collarbone. Skye insisted on the tall wine-red heels, even though they would feel hellish after about an hour on the concrete floors ("if you last an hour without him ripping off your clothes, then that boy has more self control than Jesus being tempted by the devil.").

“So he wasn’t at least a little suspicious by the late night lab session?” Skye inquired.

“Oh not at all. We work around both his work schedule and my classes. It’s quite normal, really.”

As Skye put the finishing touches on Jemma's smokey eyes, she prompted, "So what are you going to say to get him all hot and bothered?"

Jemma hadn't quite thought that through. Skye chuckled at the wide-eyed look of panic on Jemma's face. "It's majorly easy. Just act natural, go with what you feel, and don't self-censor too much. Just -pretend I'm Fitz. What's the first thing that comes into your head?"

Jemma nodded and grinned. She did excel at preparation, and while her seduction plan was rather hastily strewn together, a well-timed revision would do wonders.

She looked at Skye, and then closed her eyes, "I find it easier to envision the scenario in my mind's eye," Jemma declared, screwing up her mouth and thinking hard.

"Don't overthink it." Skye coached,"just blurt it out."

"My what a....gorgeous... Head? You have?" Jemma opened one eye and cringed.

"Yeah, F-. Crashed and burned. Bad. Like, flames, everywhere. Villagers screaming, babies crying -"

"Not really helping.”

* * *

 

As the door to the lab opened behind her, Jemma's pulse trilled, and she tried to remember Skye's admonishments.

_Just remember, don't self-censor or think too much. And don't get too weird. Just say what you're thinking in a sexy voice, and throw in a lot of touching and space invading._

She spun from her workspace, her gloved hands shaking lightly as her eyes swept over Fitz’s form, taking in the slim, tight fit of his ragged jeans against his bum, the slashed Clash tee over a henley, the sleeves pushed up past his elbows, flashing the sketch and shade of his tattoo sleeves as he pulled the door shut. She loved the way his curls spilled over his forehead when he hadn’t time to fix his hair.

He flicked his eyes up to hers, and shot her a quick grin. Jemma tittered and quickly shifted her eyes away, hoping the blush she felt rising hotly would fade just as quick. She cleared her throat and brought her hand to her hair, twirling a bit of it in between her gloved fingers. “Hello, Leo,” She tried to make her voice sound sultry.

Fitz cringed, pausing mid-stride to hold up a hand, pinching the bridge of his nose with the other. “Please, Simmons. _Fitz_. My mother barely calls me Leo. Only when she’s angry.”

Jemma faltered. She nodded. “Right…” She realized that now was perhaps a perfect moment to unbutton her lab coat, and - as Skye termed it, ‘show off the goods’. She turned away from him, her hands at her buttons. Shifting her weight to her other foot, she slipped suddenly. She’d forgotten about her sky-high heels.

“Woah!” Fitz exclaimed, surging forward suddenly, throwing his arms out to catch her, falling to one knee under her, just in time, clutching blindly at her hip while her thigh connected heavily with his shoulder, “Easy, Jemma.” He murmured, reaching a hand down to right her ankle.

Jemma found his shoulder, and hastily spat out the hair that had landed in her mouth. She felt his hand, hot against her ankle, shifting her foot beneath her. She sucked in a nervous breath.

“ _What on earth_ have you got on your feet? In the lab of all places?” Fitz’s voice was equal parts bewildered and concerned when he looked up at her, his fingers still gripping tightly into the labcoat, where it hung at her hip.

Her mouth gawped like a fish. It took her a few tries before she managed. “Jimmy Choos?”

“Perhaps, in the interest of lab safety, keep those monstrous things at home next time?” Fitz slowly levered himself to standing, his hand trailing along her side as he stepped back. “You could break your ankle.”

Jemma nodded in rapid agreement.

“You’re in a right state, now, too - your labcoat’s half-unbuttoned,”

Jemma looked down, her cheeks colouring once again, spying the odd two buttons loose at the bottom. She couldn’t even get that right, for heaven’s sake! But if there was one thing Jemma Simmons was not, it was a quitter. She had a mission.

...But perhaps, she should gather her bearings, first. Quickly she fastened the buttons, and returned to her workspace, her breath short and rapid, trying to calm herself after her initial failure. Just remember, Jemma, she told herself, one failed experiment just means success is closer at hand. You can do this. You can seduce one single man.

One, single, solitary man. Alone with her, in her lab. She allowed a small peek over her shoulder, biting her lip as she pushed her hair behind her ears.

 _One, single, brilliant man_ , she thought, watching his hand against the drafting board, arcing a smooth line across the paper, and then, fluidly, shifting to the blackboard beside him to draw out a quick calculation to right the angle of alignment. The solution was elegant, it took him seconds, when it would have taken her at least five minutes.

He bent lower, half in profile, the pucker of his lips closing around the pencil he stuck in his mouth as he flipped the drafting table over, where his detailed blueprint of the rifle mechanism was sketched out. Her heart thumped a heavy beat. _One single, brilliant, beautiful man_.

 _Stop it_. She commanded her heavily beating heart. _Jemma Simmons, you revised. This is simply an exam_. She told herself, hoping her usual method of calming her nerves would help. Tests were easy. They were simple. There was one right answer, and in this case, it was Fitz, ripping off her clothes and sticking his tongue in her mouth.

Jemma nodded decidedly to herself, and brought her hands up to her buttons, unfastening them one at a time as she tried to think up casual but sexy non-sequiturs.

...She was drawing a blank.

 _Surely I’ll think of something when I get there_ , Jemma reassured herself, striding carefully across the lab. Skye had said not to think too hard about it.

"Um,” Jemma began. She screwed up her courage as she stepped in close to him, bringing her hand up to flip the tucked-in collar of his henley out. She gave his chest a quick pat, and let her hand linger, before taking a deep breath and saying all in a rush, “You’relookingquitegoodtodayFitz."

"Yeah, thanks,” He said, his eyebrows clipped together and his mouth pursed tight as he stared at the equations in front of him. “I had a bit of a brainwave in the shower this morning - the rounds’ dispersal needs to start from the tip -" He tapped at the half-drafted design in front of him, seemingly unaware that her hand had drifted, flattening against his pectorals.

Jemma let her fingers close a little into his shirt, causing the fabric at the button to pucker as she cast her glance away, embarrassed, but forcing herself to continue. "I meant _good_ as in -"

"Not great. Yeah, I _know_. But if I can just calculate the correct angle, the force and drive of it should just shatter the cas-"

Jemma tittered nervously, her voice breathy and a little pleading as she insisted, pointedly, "You'll shatter hearts if you go on this way - one in particular-"

"No! I know, that's _exactly_ what I'm _worried_ about - the pattern needs to be perfect, or else the bullets could penetrate..."

Was he even realizing what she was saying to him? It was both maddening and endearing, his laser-like focus on the problem. But perhaps, she could direct that focus elsewhere? Point it where she wanted it, in particular?

Jemma squeezed her eyes shut, and with a deep breath, plunged ahead, bravely. He’d given her the perfect segue, after all.

She let her fingertips drag heavily down his abdomen, and settle against the seatbelt clasp of his belt.

" _Penetration_?" she breathed, fluttering her eyelashes and staring up through them longingly.

"Yes, well, that's the rub, isn't it?"

"... _Is it_?" She let her voice get low as she stepped into his space, her body mere inches from his.

"Well obviously - at that speed, calculating velocity, it'd be like scattersho’ - the target's skin would end up being torn like they'd been hit with shards of glass. It could embed in bone - the weigh’ of the metal is really the damning force..."

With a sigh, Jemma took a cursory glance at his equations, her eyes lighting on the elemental notations he’d anticipated for the metallic alloy.

"Oh, _fuck me_!" Jemma cried.

She immediately took a step closer to the blackboard, dropping her hand from Fitz’s pants and bending to grab some chalk.

It was the sudden absence of her that he noticed first - the feeling of empty space around him, and a fading heat on his chest - the tingle of his skin above his belt buckle, and then suddenly - _You’re looking quite good today Fitz - You’ll shatter hearts if you go on this way - penetration - is it?_

Was _she_ \- had she _been...hitting on him_?

For a moment, all he could hear was the sound of his heart pounding heavy and fast in his chest, and the sudden scritch-scratch of the chalk against the board where she was swiftly writing out a heavily layered formula.

Quickly, she tore away to a filing cabinet, fishing a key out of her purse. "Oh bugger. Buggerbuggerbugger fuck _shit_.” Jemma cursed rapidly, huffing out a suddenly aggravated rush of air as she slammed the drawers shut, one after the other.

She let out a frustrated screech. “I’ve lost the notebook!”

“Wait - what notebook?” Fitz quickly intervened, stopping her hands before she struck out against the filing cabinet again, holding them tight within his own, and marvelling at his earlier stupidity. She had had her hands all over him, and he hadn’t even noticed! How on earth had that happened? How could he consider himself a sexual being and not notice Jemma Simmons’ hands against his chest? Her knuckles pressed into his shirt, below his belly button? What kind of pure, daft _fool_ was he?

“The one with the finalized formula!” She slumped heavily against the counter, pulling her hands from his to grasp the back of her neck in frustrated anxiety, “I had come up with a theoretical alloy that would, ostensibly, transmute between states of matter when combined with the chemical compound inherent to sebum when heat was appl -”

“-the bullet casing would liquify -”

“when it touched the skin -exactly. But the formula was in one of my discarded notebooks - it didn’t have any topical advantage at the time - it was more of a -”

“-thought experimen’.”

“and I can’t find it, Fitz!” Jemma raked her hands through her hair. “Just the breakthrough we need, and it isn’t even here!”

“Well, where else would it be?”

“I don’t know! I haven’t taken it out of the lab since last Christmas, when horrid Grandmama was visiting, and I needed some excuse to escape to the -” Jemma’s eyes lit up, a thousand-watt grin breaking her face into dimples, “the study!”

“You brilliant, amazing _genius_!” Jemma crowed, clapping her hands onto either side of his face as she shot to standing. “I swear I could kiss you!”

“Yeah, okay,” He breathed, standing stock still in her enraptured grip.

Suddenly she bounded to her feet, swiped her purse off the bench, and ran to the door.

“Are you coming or not?”

* * *

 

Due to the lateness of the hour, and the fact that her parents were probably sleeping, and would definitely disapprove of their daughter being in the company of heavily tattooed, mohawk-sporting gentleman of the punk persuasion, Jemma had ushered Fitz up the trellis, through her window, and had commanded sock-feet for the remainder of their late night excursion.

Fitz’s socks, he was embarrassed to reveal, were mismatching argyle. Certainly not suitable for whatever sort of advances he was half-planning. Perhaps he should just rethink it all for some other time, when circumstances were better suited? But then, his mind drifted to the crowded tube ride, where instead of clinging to the rail, Jemma had wrapped her arms around his waist, and pressed in close, instead. It seemed promising?

They padded into the study, the extended creak of the door making him cringe as he drew it shut. Jemma’s hand found his wrist in the dark as she drew him along behind her, through the maze of bookcases, end-tables, armchairs, and books, to an alcove bookended by two desks.

She quickly flicked on the desk lamp, casting a warm glow to circle around the broad mahogany surface. Jemma began to shift the messily strewn papers that littered the ink-blotter. Fitz fell instep, quietly bending over to draw open desk drawers. “What’s it look like?” He asked in a hushed whisper.

“Just a plain navy moleskin. It has my initials, J.E.S., embossed on the cover,” She relayed, dropping to her knees to fiddle with a sticking drawer.

Nothing matched in the column of drawers he was exploring. With care, he shut the last one, and moved to stand, casting his gaze about. “I’m goin’a look aroun’ a bit, maybe it got moved,” he intoned, meandering around the desk spaces, until he ended up at the twin on the other side.

Jemma nodded, attention on the collection of notebooks in her arms as she waved him on.

In the wan light, he shifted some strangely bulged papers. They hid a notebook, roughly of the same description.

He took a step closer, gripping the battered moleskin, and bringing it close to his squinting eyes. Fumbling for the switch on the desk light, Fitz’s elbow knocked into a paper organizer, and it clattered loudly to the ground, the sudden crash turning on the clap-on lamp.

“Oops,” Fitz winced. Through his half-squinting grimace, he saw the letters embossed on the cover. “Found it?”

“On father’s desk?” Confusion clear in her tone, Jemma hurried over, grasping the spine of the notebook, her stomach falling through the floor in a sudden, unaccountable flood of suspicion. She shook her head, trying to dislodge the strange, uncomfortable feeling of betrayal that lanced through her.

“Maybe Sabrina moved it? By accident?”

“Trudi,” Jemma corrected distantly, staring hard at the notebook in her hand, feeling as though the synapses in her brain were misfiring, filling her thoughts with nothing but blankness.

She cleared her throat, and nodded. “Yes. Trudi must have...while cleaning, perhaps.” Her voice sounded hollow and unconvinced.

Plodding, heavy footfalls began to approach from the hallway outside.

Quickly, shaking herself from her reverie, Jemma assessed the situation - She was alone with a man - an alternatively styled one, at that - in a darkened room, late at night. Under such easily misunderstood circumstances, Jemma made a snap-decision, casting about for a hiding place, and seeing only one possibility.

“The desk!” She hissed, clawing at his shoulder and pushing him down, “Under the desk!”

Fitz, toppled awkwardly to his knees, scrambling for the short opening, and cast up a silent thanks for his wiry frame and less than giant stature, for possibly the first time in his life. Immediately, Jemma’s knees crowded around him, as he fought to remain upright, instead of falling heavily against the desk. Somehow, with the jar and roll of the chair, he found one hand braced against the solid underside of the desk, and his other clutching blindly at Jemma’s waist, steadying himself against her, his cheek pillowed against her suddenly exposed inner thigh, her skirt having rucked up in her slide onto the seat.

Fitz sucked in possibly the last breath he would ever take as the door creaked loudly open, footsteps sounding staccato against the hardwood.

Jemma’s hands clutched knuckle-white against the edge of the desk, steadying the rolly-chair she sat on against the sudden force of Fitz’s weight falling heavily between her knees. His breath puffed out hotly against her inner thighs, and she suppressed a shiver, managing to steady herself, just as the door revealed the shadowed, but sleepily lumbering figure of Harcourt Simmons in his housecoat.

“What a god-awful racket, Jemma. You know there is a no-noise policy in this house past 9pm.” Harcourt stifled a yawn, rubbing at his eyes as he came closer, slight befuddlement panning his features.

Jemma gulped, and wheeled in tighter, pressing herself forward to more effectively hide the man awkwardly cradled in her lap, under the opening of the desk. “I’m sorry father, I just brushed past it and it fell -”

“You know how I feel about excuses,” Harcourt’s eyebrows drew closer as he scanned the picture before him, Jemma, at his desk, sitting at attention, clutching a notebook tightly.

He craned his head to the side, disapproval writ in the lines of his expression. “Jemma, you know Father’s desk is off-limits. It has very important documents on it – you know you won’t be able to put them back correctly, and then I’ll have to spend twice the time cleaning up your mess. They’re organized. That’s why you have your own desk,” He half-gestured towards it with the sash of his robe, as he retied it with a sigh.

It felt as though a weight, which had been floundering on the surface, finally sunk down to the pit of her stomach. The notebook in her hand was a heavy anchor. She didn’t want to know, but her mouth seemed to form the words on its own. “I was looking for my notebook.”

She didn’t want to ask the question. Didn’t want to know. _Better left alone_ , she told herself, but again, it was as though her synapses were misfiring, doing exactly the wrong thing, and she cringed as the sounds filled the gaping space between them. “I found it at your desk. Perhaps...”

She tried to make her voice as innocent as possible, praying inwardly that Trudi wouldn’t be fired her her simple misstep, “-perhaps Trudi misplaced it?”

“Oh, no.” Harcourt replied gruffly, straightening a mussed pile of papers, “You left it open on the side table. You know how I like to take an interest in your little projects.”

Jemma tried to process his words, shaking her head in disbelief. “But, I’ve been looking for this for months,”

“Yes well, it appeared promising, so I thought I would bring it to the lab, and have some of Roxxon’s real scientists – the best in the field, you know – take a look at it.” Harcourt scrubbed at the iron grey stubble of his chin, expelling a disappointed breath. “I’m afraid to say they couldn’t make heads nor tails of it. In fact, they were befuddled that you would even _conceive_ of such science-fiction.”

“It’s _not_ science-fiction father! It’s _possible_!” Jemma insisted with sudden passion, “You _always_ – I can’t _believe_ you would –“

“Stop it, Jemma,” He censured, pinning her with a look of stern condescension. “Just _stop_. I’m afraid respected minds disagree with you. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, this silly little notion you have of striking out on your own is a pipe-dream at best. Yes, you’re clever,” He held up a hand to forestall her protestations, her face growing hot and her eyes suddenly swimming, her throat filling with emotion.

“Too clever by half. But you’re unfocused! Unguided, you just end up in some dream-world, mind full of flights of fancy!” He insisted, running an exasperated hand through his hair. “It’s as I always tell you. Why you’ll be lucky to earn half as much as that no-account, blue-collar son of mine – you’ll end up some penniless experimenter – like, that other one – the one who made himself blind, that –“

Jemma recoiled as though she’d been struck, blinking back watery tears. Her expression composed itself into a stony, mile-long stare, focusing over his shoulder, into the darkness.

“That lunatic, the one with the bird. Edison was the true visionary, so I understand. Good business sense, that one.”

Jemma shook her head, the one, damning truth ringing like a gong in her brain. “You _stole_ my work.”

“It wasn’t stealing, Jemma Elizabeth. Don’t _embellish_.” Harcourt admonished, sharply. “Why, you’re becoming hysterical. You’re always given to such overreaction. As I said, it was a worthless endeavour anyways -”

“You freely admit, you took my work and brought it to Roxxon, without even so much as a by-your-leave?” she bit out, clamping her mouth shut into a tight, straight-jacket line, holding back the scream of frustrated rage that threatened.

“I don’t _need_ your permission, young lady.”

“You do when it’s my _intellectual property_!” She screeched, shaking the notebook hard in the air in front of her.

“What intellect? What property?” He snapped, striding forward in two, quick, purposeful steps, “Didn’t I _just_ tell you that there is nothing in this piece of alchemical _trash_ worth salvaging?”

“You hardly understand the periodic table!” Jemma suddenly burst, her voice crashing loudly around her - she couldn’t stop herself any more, “You wouldn’t know good science –“

“I don’t need to know.” He hissed, slamming his hands down on the desk, right over Fitz’s silent head.

Harcourt pressed his face intimidatingly close to his daughter’s, and spat, “That is what I pay others for. That’s what I pay the best minds in the field for, _Jemma Elizabeth._ ” He pushed off and spun, one hand on his hips, the other gesticulating wildly as he exclaimed, “I’ve fed your _ego_ and indulged these silly dreams of yours because you’re my little girl, and I _love you_! Even when you’re being an upstart, knickers-in-a-twist, little, _self-righteous, spoiled brat_ , like you are right now! I see now, I was wrong to _shelter_ you from these facts. But this is _life_ , Jemma! And life will not _spare_ you, as _I_ have –“

Under the desk,  Fitz felt all of Jemma’s muscles slowly seize against the cuts of the incising words that stabbed into her like a thousand tiny knives. Her hand, which had been clutching his shoulder, steadying him, had shifted into a fist, pressing so hard into her thigh that it indented, whitening the skin under her flesh-toned stockings. Against his cheek, her thighs trembling in anger, which was the opposite reason of what Fitz had envisioned when he had initially gotten shoved under the desk.

His lips were white with rage, and his muscles sung, coiled with sheer hatred for the sonofabitch above him, her own father, stripping off pieces of her self-worth like so much meat, trying to diminish her down to nothing, right in front of him. Fitz longed to surge forward, spin around, and sock the pretentious, overblown, idiotic windbag right in the throat, but - he feared, that would only worsen an already unbearable situation.

Instead, he did the only thing he could think to do.

He did the only thing that made any sense under the relentless barrage of insult and nonsense.

He grabbed her firm fist, forcefully uncurling her clawed fingers, and drew her hand close, pressing kisses like flowers into her palm, one after the other, intent and full, he hoped, of all the belief and respect and pride he felt in her soaring imagination, her unconventionality, and her beautiful, stunning mind. Then, he entwined his fingers in hers, holding tight, bringing his other hand, carefully, to rub soothing circles against the leaping, hardscrabble S.O.S. of her pulse. Fitz nuzzled his head in her lap in some facsimile of a hug, hoping to offer some counterpoint, some alternative to the toxic spew that he felt seeping into her.

Jemma shook her head from side to side, fighting the denial that welled inside her, the little voice that agreed with him, that said she was just playing at being a scientist, that she was just a silly little girl, that she was too clever by half, but not nearly as smart as she thought she was.

She felt Fitz’s steading weight in her lap, the rough nuzzle of his whiskered cheek against her thigh, and swallowed down the denial.

She whispered, sobs in her voice, “You’re _wrong_. It’s _good_. It’ll work. I know it. You had _no_ right.”

Fitz’s hand was warm against her own, his lips so soft and tender she could cry just from the feel of them against her skin, and, in a sudden surge of confidence and bravery, her voice strong, she declared, “Those asinine _pricks_ you pay to kowtow and shore up your grossly misinformed opinions wouldn’t know good science from _a fucking hole in the ground_! Someone has to be at the forefront of the field – like that scientist you just mentioned – his name was Tesla, _BY THE WAY_ – And I intend for it to be m-“

Something heavy and flat struck her cheek, the force of it spilling the tears she had fought like a deluge down her face, as she hiccoughed, holding her breath and bringing her hand to her stinging cheekbone.

Jemma whirled to face her father, who rubbed the back of his hand, glaring hard at her. “You will _not_ talk to me in that tone _in my own house_.”

Silent sobs shook her ribcage. She held her breathe tight, her chest feeling like it would burst into tiny pieces around her as she cast her gaze upwards, counting ceiling tiles as she willed gravity to stop her tears. She turned her face away from him, hastily wiping at her eyes in silence, praying the shadows would hide the fact that her emotions had bested her, _again_ , that she was a hysterical child, _again_.

_Like always._

“If l was a less forgiving man, You would be out on your ear.” He admonished sternly, his anger making his deep voice gravelly.  “This kind of sudden acting out is very unlike you.”

With a heavy sigh and a weighty glare, he continued, “What happened to the dutiful, loving, respectful daughter that I raised? _Hmm_? Is spending all that time with that _radical_ you call a brother really a healthy use of your time? From the way I see things, he and all of his layabout, counter-culture _freaks_ -” His rage suffused past his cold exterior, rushing out to spit tiny drops of saliva on the unfurling ‘S’ at the end of the word-

“-have given you a puffed-up sense of self-importance! As though your fanciful, _childish_ opinions had any weight in the grander scheme of things! _Don’t you realize that you_ , like all women before you, once you’ve gotten yourself attached to a gentleman of consequence, that the way you spend your time will change – you won’t have room in your life for this - this - inconsequential _hogswallop_ – this silly little academic _hobby_ of yours. Why, it will fall by the wayside when your other duties as a wife and mother loom large. Perhaps, right now, you need something to occupy that _wild_ imagination of yours, but in time, you’ll focus on Sunil. Your outlook _will_ change.”

He levelled her with a haughty, knowing, and utterly disappointed stare. “You will finally grow up, Jemma.”

He shook his head, each side-to-side movement sending waves of disgust crashing into her like tidal waves. Harcourt turned on his heel without another word, and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

The breath that shook her chest exploded out of her in a burst of wet air as she pressed a palm firmly to her lips, stoppering the sobs that threatened to detonate, like putting a pin in a grenade.

Fitz felt her body go limp around him, her limbs suddenly slack, before her chest rose in a heave, holding taut. The tiny quivers and quakes that tensed her muscles as she shook, without a sound, spurred him to sudden action.

He shoved the rolly-chair out and away from the desk, surging up to standing, fluidly pulling her against him in a crushing hug. She froze against the sudden affection, and then, as if some tiny, crack in her defences had blown wide, everything that held her together, all the bricks and mortar she’d so carefully placed, the high wall that had separated China from the Huns, crumbled into dust.

She collapsed into him, and he fell, from the sudden weight, into the desk chair. Awkwardly, he gathered her up onto his lap, like a marionette whose strings had been  cut. He, so softly, pressed her face into the crook of his neck as tears spilled, her face pulled into a mask of anguish, crying unprettily. He pulled her knees up into his side, and rubbed tender, soothing circles against her knees, her back, her thighs, her hair, kissing her temples and crooning soft, unintelligible sweet nothings into her hair.

His voice sounded like the cooing of birds, like comfort and like sanctuary.

It sounded like home.

Fitz winced as her sobs redoubled, suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Jemma, pet, love, I don’t know wha’ I said, sweetheart, but wha’ever it was, I’m sorry for it. Please, forgive me, I didn’ mean to,” he begged, brushing the tears from her eyes as she looked up at him, shaking her head in the negative, her little face splotched with red, tear-stained tracks coursing down her cheeks.

Pain was impressed upon her features, but her eyes were some confusing mix of awe and sadness to him, it seemed, and suddenly, she had ducked away, pressing her head back down and burrowing down against his chest, as if she could build a home in the cavity of his ribs, and stay there. What was there anyway, that she didn’t already own? What need had he for a heart? He was already full up of her, he realized, suddenly, understanding, in that instant, just how strong she was, and just how tenuous that strength held, and just how unfathomable it was that she existed, and that she allowed him to hold her, when she was like this, all raw nerve endings, all her fault lines exposed, like the seams of a mountainside.

He clutched her tighter, and cleared his throat, thick as it was with emotion.

After a while, her sobs faded into soft hiccoughs, and she slid from his lap, nervously rearranging her clothes, refusing to look at him as she tugged at her hem.

Fitz shifted uncomfortably, ill at ease without the weight of her against him. He reached up a hand, awkwardly rubbing tears from his neck. He wanted to stand up, put his arms around her, pull her to him again, but with every tug and pat of her clothing, every smoothing of her hair, he could feel drawbridges being sealed, moats being filled, walls stacking higher and higher.

“I really do apologize, Fitz.” Jemma’s voice was quiet, controlled.

She turned to face him, her tight smile apologetic, “You always seem to have the misfortune of seeing me at my worst.” Her smile faltered a bit then.

“ _Don’t_ , don’t apologize, not to me,” he pleaded, his brow steepled in concern.

Eyes burning, red rimmed, she plastered on a too bright grin. “My emotions always seem to get the better of me. I’m afraid I should just admit it - I’m a bit prone to histrionics.” She flippantly waved a hand at her face, and dragged the cuff of her sleeve against her eyes. So much for her outfit. So much for seduction. She cringed inwardly at the foolish picture she must be making of herself.

“You’re not,” Fitz declared, standing, coming over to her to grasp her hands, “That arrogant _imbecilic troglodyte_ \- I’ve half a mind to march right over there!”

Fitz’s banked anger inflamed in a sudden gust. “How he could even think to say such _patently_ untrue, _completely_ unfounded things, about his own daughter - about the most brilliant woman - _nay_ , the most brilliant _PERSON_ \- I have _ever_ met or _will ever_ meet, I can’ _begin_ to fathom what kin’ of massive, childhood malfunction broke him, _that piece of utter shite_ \- I don’t care that he’s your father, Jem, I will sock him straight in the _JAW_!”

Fitz spun on his heel. He was halfway to the door before Jemma caught his hand and hauled him back, yanking his arm.

“Don’t Fitz, don’t, you’ll only make it worse,” she pleaded, her voice reedy and hollow.

He suddenly lit on the slump of her shoulders, and stepped in closer to her, wreathing his arms about her to pull her in close for another hug. His lips pressed against the crown of her hair, feather-soft, barely a kiss, but he needed to, and it was all he could do, under the circumstances.

“I just need to go to bed.” Her voice was forcefully bright, as if it could outshine the weariness in her bones as she slid further into him, fractionally, releasing into his embrace.

“Yeah, okay,” he agreed, keeping his arm at her back and pressing against her side, buttressing her with his solid warmth. By the time Jemma stepped back to her room, the adrenaline had begun to fade.  

She tried to hide how trembly she was, how badly her hands shook, as she fiddled about with the tiny, seed-pearl buttons on her top, where it cinched in her waist. For some stupid reason, her fingers felt like sausages, and she couldn’t get them to work. They just quivered and shook like an arthritic man set with palsy.

A frustrated noise skittered up and out of her throat.

Fitz, who had stood awkwardly behind her, watching as she futzed with her clothes, stuttered forward at the sound. Without a thought, his hands rose, dropping a soft pressure against hers.

Slowly, glancing up every few seconds, chewing at his lip with uncertainty, he began to work at the tiny pearl buttons, helping her undress – his hands shaking nearly as much as hers.

His fingers were like hummingbirds whispering against her sternum as he pushed her top from her shoulders, gulping as the shadows fluttered, watching the fabric puddle into his hands.

Jemma could barely breathe, each breath half-taken, hitched, like her lungs were full up of the way he he was so careful with her, the reverence in his eyes, and without warning, she found herself tripping forward, feverishly pressing her lips against his in a hard clash of lips and teeth.

Fitz froze, deer-still, his lips gnashing in the immediacy of the moment, teeth knocking gracelessly against hers and then, he pulled back, and sunk into her, moaning as he tilted his head, slotting his lips softly against hers, his tongue begging entrance as the seam of her mouth.

Her tongue tentatively brushed against his, and his body was finally able move again - it can’t _not_ move, can’t _not_ press against her, grinding his chest against her bra-clad breasts.

His hand, still clutching her top, came to cradle her face. He opened his eyes, trying to take in all of the moment, the perfect moment, and then he saw it - streaks of mascara-ruined silk, crushed in his grip, and realized just exactly what he was doing.

“I can’t,” He breathed against her cheek, just barely pulling away. Can’t take advantage of you in such a state as this.

“ _Can_ ,” Jemma insisted, tears in her voice as she presses her mouth to his again, all heat and promises.

Fitz wrenched back, forcefully pushing her away, turning from her accusing eyes. She was so close, and he wanted her so very badly, craved her like a diver craves oxygen, but they’d drown - going on like this, and he’d never forgive himself.

A look of anguished rejection flashed across Jemma’s features as she brought her arms up to cover herself.

“I can’t, it’s not right Jemma,” He said, squeezing his eyes shut and drawing on every ounce of his will.

She nodded, biting her lip and turning away, “Yes, of course, you’re right.” Her voice was thin and tremulous.

“Let’s get you to bed,”

Fitz, slowly approached her, hands out, like she was a horse that would shy away. He took her by the arms, and led her to her bed.

He held the covers up for her, and then tucked them in around her, sitting gingerly on the edge, watching her. His eyes held some emotion she couldn’t name, something that struck her deep, like a tuning fork ringing in her soul. She sniffed, and rubbed her nose, but didn’t look away.

Slowly, he leaned down, his fingers brushing her hair gently behind her ear. His face descended closer, and then, she felt the press of his warm, moist lips against her cheekbone - a butterfly brush, barely there, kissing her face – her cheek, her eyelids, her forehead, lingerly, before pulling away and turning towards the window, leaving Jemma feeling bereft and confused, staring up at the eyelet of her canopy.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Alright, so I debated putting a trigger-warning in this chapter, but I didn't think it fully warranted it, and I didn't want to spoil the twist. However, let me know in the comments if you think it's needed, because I will definitely get on that!
> 
> That said, a thing you should definitely not do:When you start reading the part in the study, don't listen to St. Jude by Florence and the machine, and then ILYSB by LANY, and then Missing You by Betty Who.
> 
> IT MAKES IT WORSE.


	15. Long View

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After sharing a desperate kiss following an emotional encounter with Jemma's father, Fitz and Jemma's separate insecurities and misunderstandings lead them to seek advice from Bobbi and Lance about how to proceed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks again to my pinch-hitter (or pitch-hitter? I don't sports...or sports metaphors well) beta, Notapepper for her assistance during this chapter! It was a bit of weird one to write because I'm switching up the dynamics and pairings, so having her AND THE INESTIMABLE PI as a sounding board was super helpful!

* * *

 

 

Lance, very carefully, moved to perch on the edge of the old, overstuffed sofa, wedging in front of Jemma’s blanketed feet. She was curled up like a nautilus shell, clutching an old teddybear he’d given her one birthday to her chest, her  head covered by a pillow, and the rest of her draped in layers of blanket upon blanket.

With a deep, sympathetic sigh, he placed a hand on the bump he assumed was Jemma’s ankle, and gave it a little pat. “Li’l, you in there somewhere?”

There was a noncommittal mumble in reply.

Jemma hadn’t been able to sleep. She’d stared at the canopy of her bed, and then, when her brain refused to count the embroidered eyelets anymore (instead of thinking about what had happened and how she had kissed Fitz, who had kissed her back and then denied her, and then left, but not without dropping kisses against her face, like they were some sort of breadcrumbs, some strange and esoteric trail meant to lead her to some conclusion - what they signified, she couldn’t parse out), Jemma turned to her darkened window, and watched the gradients of dark shift gradually to the grey light of morning.

It was five in the morning when she tip-toed down the staircase, duffle in hand. Down the stairs, near the back entrance, she had run into her father on his way to the toilet. He had stared at her for a moment, his face devoid of the vociferousness that had clouded it the previous night, and had glanced pointedly at the duffle.

“I’ve got some samples culturing over the next week. I’ll be staying in the lab overnights.” She explained briefly, her voice thin. It was, of course, a lie. But it was a simple lie, and one so close to the truth, and so often used and said, that it rolled off her like water. Her drained state made it easier to deliver.

Jemma forced a smile. She felt exhausted and hollow, nothing but an exoskeleton of a girl - just bones and brittle skin, filled up with nothing but empty air. She was numb. It happened sometimes. And at moments, such as this one, Jemma preferred the void of emotion to the swell of molten feeling.

She felt her cheek muscles buckle into dimples. “Early mornings always leave me tired,” she lied with surprisingly smoothness. “Well, good luck this week father. I hope your endeavours with the American office pan out.” She gave a solid nod of what she hoped appeared to be encouragement. She felt nothing, and cared for nothing, and simply wished for escape, and hoped, distantly, that it did not show on her face.

Harcourt nodded, and added gruffly, “Thank you, yes.”

As Jemma turned, halfway out the door, he called, “I trust you’ll think about what I said last night. Roxxon is in a very promising position to offer you a great deal, Jemma.”

“Yes father,” Jemma had said, and walked out.

She had arrived at Lance’s flat at half six, and had, in some zombie-state, pulled from the tiny linen cupboard all of the blankets she could lay her hands on, and Arthur Arcturus, her stuffed bear, which had been stuck at the back of the cupboard. A moment later, her reserves had emptied, and she floundered on the couch, drawing the bedclothes up, and the world away.

It was now nearly four, and Lance had been trying, since returning from his morning shift, to putter about quietly, so as not to disturb the lump of blankets and pillows.

It was what she did, when things got difficult at home. She took cover. she escaped. she withdrew into herself like a wild animal into its den, to lick wounds and heal alone, lest any other predators notice the hurt, and take advantage of a moment of weakness.

So Lance puttered.

He picked up the scattered take-away boxes, scrubbed the dishes, gathered the forgotten socks and trousers littered along the floor. He swept just as quietly as he could, and then chucked out the garbage in the bin.

He did these things because if he did not, Jemma would wake up and do them, focusing all of her energy and her mind power into scrubbing stains and washing walls and finding the imperfections around her and eradicating them, like they were some sign of disease, some infection she could cure. And by the end, she would not feel better, exactly; yet, her broad smile would stretch, but not to her eyes, and her effervescent personality would buoy  her, but only  like a half-filled balloon, instead of filling her up to float. It was just that, Lance knew, she had some distance then, had enough to pack it all up and put it away, like tidying his flat tidied her mind, so she didn’t have to look at it any more, didn’t have to admit there was anything unclean or untoward or dark hiding in the nooks and crannies of that bright little brain.

So he tidied. And he waited.

Sometimes, she’d open up, spill the dirty details - there’d be tears and she’d use up all his toilet paper blowing her nose, but after, it was like a weight had been lifted. A release. And she’d snot up his shirts and make him watch Patrick Swayze in that bloody pond, over and over, but at least her eyes wouldn’t be dull, and her voice wouldn’t be reedy, and she’d finally let him eat all the crisps and ice-cream he wanted.

So when he heard her incoherent mumble, he already knew to cancel his plans with Bob. _I’ll be makin’ plans instead with Patrick bloody Swayze, the prig._

“L’il sister?” He tried again, giving her ankle a shake to rouse her. Her bedraggled brunette locks peeked out first, and then her bleary, red rimmed eyes.

She nodded, slipping her mussed head back under the covers.

Lance sighed. _He’d try. Who knew? It might make a difference._ “I hear Fitz’s coming - Trip invited him and Skye along to quiz night - and hey! _Quiz night_! The best night of the week! Where you get to firmly trounce all the other idiots in the room with your prodigious intellect! Are you sure you want to cancel on that?” He waggled a convincing eyebrow and elbowed her in the stomach. Bobbi had promised to do that thing he liked, and he wanted to try it in a more...excitingly semi-public locale.

Jemma groaned loudly, her head poking from the blanket nest with her hands at her eyes. “I can’t, I can’t. Oh Lance. I’ve mucked it _all_ up!” Her chest heaved in a huge intake of breathe, and it rattled out into thick, wracking sobs.

He opened his arms wide and gestured for her, “C'mere, you goose. You _can’t_ have.”

“But I _did_!” She weeped hugely, falling forward, scrambling at his plaid shirt.

“Impossible,” he continued, patting at her back and petting her hair comfortingly. “There’s nothing you can’t fix! You’re Jemma Simmons! And Harcourt is a twat, but he always gets over it.”

"It wasn't - I mean, that's... Yes, but, oh Big, it's more than that. I can't face him - anyone, right now."

“Want me to give our excuses?”

* * *

 

Fitz slid a finger under the tight collar of his shirt, pulling a bit against the tie which sat uncomfortably snug at his neck.

Jemma was used to the finer things. And well, he wasn’t exactly... the, uh, the finer, of things, but she deserved the effort, he thought, so he had spent a few p in the nearby charity shop and picked up a thrifted blue shirt with a stiff collar and buttons at the sleeves, and everything.  A few more had gotten him a smart plaid tie with bright yellow and green cross-hatch lines, and now he stood by the magazine stand near the Queen Victoria staring at buckets of carnations and funny-coloured daisies, scratching at his curls and palming his duct-taped wallet.

He wanted to do this right... If she still wanted to. If last night hadn’t been a one-off mistake, a momentary lapse in her generally sound judgement. If she wasn’t just seeking the nearest thing with arms and a mouth that was desperately in love with her, for comfort in her vulnerable state.

She deserved roses.

She deserved _dozens_ of roses. In every shade. And all of the funny coloured daisies, and even those funny looking Birds of Paradise, and tiger lilies, and maybe a whole garden, an _entire tropical jungle_ -

“What’s gotcha stumped, Fitz?”

Fitz wrenched his head around, his mind dragged bodily from the veritable garden of Eden he’d been conjuring in his mind, looking for the source of the interruption.

“Hi, hey, hello Bobbi,”

“So?”

“Erm…” Fitz scratched nervously at his freshly shaved chin, grimacing at the baby-softness. It just made him feel even younger. He must look like a twelve year old at his first communion, standing all awkward in a tie and shirt-sleeves, his typical mohawk style given instead to the riotous strip of curls Jemma seemed strangely fond of…

“You’re a female,” he began, and then halted with a cringe, “I mean, a woman - a, a - erm, a, uh _lady._..”

“...Is this going somewhere, or are we just playing the ‘obvious’ game?”

“...It’s goin’ somewhere, I swear,” Fitz said with a blush, scuffing his ruined trainers on the pavement. “- I uh, I was _wonderin’_ , um, if you’d be able to give me your opinion, as a um, _a lady_ ,”

“...okay?”

“I don’t have much goin’ around money, but, I was thinkin, of uh…”Fitz flicked his eyes back down to his trainers, crumbling under the scrutiny of Bobbi’s inquiring and unwavering gaze. His cheeks were high-coloured and he could feel the heat curling over the tips of his ears as he scrubbed the heel of his hand nervously against his temple.

“Uh, of um, gettin’ maybe some flowers? For uh, Jemma? To uh, to um, to...ask -” He trailed off into an embarassed half-whimper, half groan, tilting his head towards Bobbi, whose lips quirked into a sphinx-like smirk, “-ask her out on a date? A proper one? like, erm, dinner? Maybe? Her and me, somewhere, somewhere nice?”

Bobbi’s smirk had extended, lengthening into a fully-fledged grin, with dimples and bright eyes accompanying. Her hands had slowly, and all at once, appeared excitedly by her face. She gave a brief, over-excited, uncontrolled clap, and then stuffed her hands in her pockets, leaning into Fitz and bumping him conspiratorily in the shoulder. “So it’s finally happening, huh?”

“ _Fin-finally?!_ What do you mean?”

“Oh _come on_ , _everyone_ can see how crazy for you she is!”

“...really?” Fitz’s voice was small and dubious.

Bobbi’s laugh was genuine and surprised, her blonde locks bouncing in a tumble as she through her head back. “Really! She thinks that you’re, and I quote, ‘a brilliantly clever punk-rock dreamboat’.”

Fitz tugged at the hem of his new charity shop shirt with a slight shimmy of his shoulders and a chuffed grin. “Well, I suppose I am brilliantly clever.”

“Though not as punk-rock as I seem to remember? Trying to appear upstanding in the lab?”

“This? Oh no, I bought it special. Because Jemma, well, she’s quite classy, isn’t she? And used to um, well, upper-class sort of things. Like silk shirts and chinos and the like, and I just want to give her everything she deserves, you know? like a fancy steak dinner in some fancy uptown joint, an’ like-”

“Fitz -”

“- collared shirts an’ ties and flowers, and I was thinkin’ roses?”

“Fitz!”

“ - But also like, tiger lilies? Because they’re unexpected and vivacious and pretty  just like she is, and -”

“ _Fitz!_ ” When Bobbi was sure she’d captured his attention, she slung an arm around his shoulder, and forcefully steered him from the magazine stand.

“First off, I’m pretty sure if Jemma wanted upper-class things like silk shirts and chinos, she’d find herself a man who wore them. She likes you, just as you are -”

“-Are you sayin’ I shouldn’ave gotten the shirt? The tie was too much, I _knew_ it. I just - I know I don’t exactly have, like, much...or, well, _anythin’_...really, to offer...and I _just_ , I wanted to -”

“Stop it. What is it with the men in this town? You have plenty to offer! You’re a genius who can keep up with Jemma Simmons - You’re smart as hell and sweet as pie, for god’s sake! Look at you, you’re _adorable_!”

“...was goin’ for sexy…”

“You gotta work with what you got, lover-boy,” Bobbi admonished, wheeling him around the doorway into the pub.

“You’re adorable, and brilliant, and sweet, and here you are, all dressed up! She doesn’t need flowers. She doesn’t need chinos or a steak dinner. Between you and me,” Bobbi leaned in, conspiratorially, “What Jemma Simmons needs is a man that listens to her. A man that thinks she’s the beginning and end of the universe. Someone who values her mind just as much as her pretty face, and values her for just what she is. She needs a man that will spend hours listening to her, walking around with tea by the river, through the fog, who’ll pull her in close and kiss her in front of everyone - “ Here, Bobbi sighed, longingly.

She turned to Fitz, her eyes intense and her voice demanding. “She needs romance, Fitz. She needs companionship and support and someone who isn’t intimidated by how smart and wonderful she is, not frippery and circumstance, and all the trappings of wealth her family seems intent on shoving on her - that isn’t her, Fitz. She doesn’t like it. She likes you, just as you are.”

* * *

 

“So then, _Love Story_ , _The Way We Were_ , _Indiana Jones_ , and _Dirty Dancing_?” Lance asked, bent over the stolen milkcrate that housed his small collection of VHS tapes.

“No,” Jemma called from her cocoon of blankets, belligerently. “Those are your break-up movies. Not mine. And we haven’t _even_ broken up.” Her voice got quavery. “We haven’t even _got together_ yet, and I made a mess of it.” She slapped a hand over the shuddery intake of breath, holding back the sob that seemed just under the surface.

“I just _threw_ myself at him, like some sort of  - only _I_ thought - He was just so, _so_ sweet, and kind, and he hugged me and took - took care of me, and he didn’t seem to mind about it all, but I was such a disaster, such a _basket case_ , I belong on the Breakfast Club!” Jemma wailed, falling face-first dramatically into the mountain of comforter and pillow beside her.

Lance let out a beleaguered groan. “So _what?_ So what if you’re a bit messy as a person? You’re _splendid_ , you goose.”

Lance gestured emphatically with the _Dirty Dancing_ VHS tape in his hand, “And what’s _he_ got that’s better, eh? He’s not exactly some exquisite example of perfection and breeding, _is he_? He lives in Mack’s garage for godsake, and for a genius engineer, he’s not exactly made much of himself, has he? Workin’ as a grease-monkey in a hack garage, not even applying for patents or anything, not even in school - that’s just dragging boot-heels, innit? And look at you! You’re nearly finished your second P.hD, on your way to winning a Nobel Prize, ousting Margaret Thatcher with counter-culture knowledge for all science ‘zines, sparking revolution from the inside, breaking glass ceilings, and yeah, it’s not easy, is it? Yeah, you’ve had to struggle, it’s not all peaches and sunshine, alright? And yeah, dear old Dad’s a _sodding bastard_ who’s too intimidated by his own spawn’s brilliance, who hates to admit that someone’s smarter and better than he is, so he tears you down any chance he gets, but you know what, L’il? You’re smart and you’re strong and you _never_ let him beat you. You win every time. You _never_ give in, and the moment you finish your PhD, you’ll be able to slap him in the face with all the grant offers you’ll get, and I’ll be right there behind you, ready to sock the bugger right in the kisser -”

“Violence never solved anything -”

“ _Tell that to him, slapping you!_ Fucking _christ,_ I’d call the police if they weren’t such sodding classist bastards - I’d deal with him myself but -”

Jemma cut his tirade off with a sigh. “- It’ll only make it worse. I’m so close now, I can taste it. It’s only a little more.”

“I hate him for what he does to you.” Lance said quietly, putting back the VHS tapes.

“I hate that Fitz had to see it. Had to see _me_. Crying like some histrionic child -”

“If that little prick can’t see wha-”

“-He’s _not_! He’s _wonderful_ , and I’ll thank you to remember that, _Lance Hunter_. He’s brilliant and kind and _dear_ , and he has so, _so_ much to offer, and he’s just had a run of bad luck - but he’s brilliant and giving and just - don’t you _dare_ say anything against him -”

“ _Alright_ , alright - I’m just trying to make you feel better, aren’t I?”

“I won’t hear a bad word about him, Lance. I just won’t. He’s amazing. _I’m_ a mess. _I’m_ the problem.”

“Well you’re certainly a problem right now. The ice cream's melting and we still don’t have a movie on.” Lance gestured to the rapidly melting Neapolitan.

“How hard is it to remember? _Aliens_ , _Star Wars_ , and _Dirty Dancing_. Those are my bad day movies.”

“Dirty Dancing it is then,” he said, abruptly stuffing the tape into the player.

“If you start saying all the lines again, I swear -”

“-That you’ll join in?” Lance teased, a mischievous glint to his eyes as he handed her a bowl of ice cream.

* * *

 

“What d’you mean, she’s not comin’?” Fitz asked, his face stricken. “I had a plan, Bobbi!” He gestured between them rapidly. “ _We_ had a plan!”

Bobbi placed the bar phone back on the hook and turned back to face Fitz, her expression a mix of consternation and concern. “I heard Dirty Dancing playing on the background, Fitz. And that only means one thing.”

Bobbi grabbed him by his shirt sleeve and hauled him away from the booth where Skye and Trip sat (much closer than they needed to, shoulders pressed tight together, trips thumb stroking over the back of Skye’s hand where she held the pencil for quiz night answers in front of her).

“...That Hunter has strange taste in movies?”

“That one of them’s upset. Dirty Dancing is their breakup movie. And I know Hunter and I are good, which means that there’s something up with Jemma, which means there’s something you’re not telling me, Fitz.”

Fitz’s eyebrows screwed up, unsure about the implication insinuated in her tone. “But - you mean, me?”

“Why the sudden and implacable need to ask her out now, and do it ‘right’ after dancing around it so long, Fitz?”

Bobbi squinted, leaning in, "Why did you need to buy flowers, Fitz? Something happened last night, didn't it?"

Fitz's synapses flashed quickly back, firing on the memories of the previous night - the way she felt against him, her needy kisses, intoxicating and urgent, the way she had looked at him, somewhere between scared and thankful, and the way she had collapsed in his arms, the way she'd carved a home in his chest, how she'd been so raw, no - that wasn't the right word, more like, naked.

Stripped down to the skin. Like her father had pulled at the hinges of her armour, widened each chink. And then with him, she'd just let it fall, let it clatter into the dust, let him see the scar tissue and the fresh wounds - let him see her strength. Let him see her weakness.

She'd trusted him with that. He wasn't good for much, but he was good for that. He'd be damned if he let her regret it.

"It's not for me to talk about," he ventured, scratching at his cheek in nervousness. He needed to fix whatever he did. Because regardless, Jemma was upset. She was watching Dirty Dancing, and he had to fix it.

"What in the hell is that supposed to mean, Fitz?" Bobbi bit. "What happened!?"

Fitz threw his hands in the air and paced on the spot, placing his hands on the small of his back as he moved. "It's s'posed to mean that I can't betray her trust! I - she...sort of, um," he gestured in the air trying to find the right words to talk around the issue without blurting the truth, because now he was worried he'd done something wrong - he must have, if Jemma was avoiding him.

"Well, I guess, she sort of... Confided? A bit in me? But it's not my place to be airing her dirty laundry - I can't do that to her." His voice was pleading.

Bobbi expelled a frustrated breath, but nodded, waving him on back to where Skye and Trip were killing their opponent teams at the quiz, assuming it was the end of the conversation.

Fitz quickly pivoted, continuing in his pacing, and continued, oblivious. "Suffice to say, I saw something I wasn't supposed to - and there was a um...vulnerable moment, and I didn't want to take advantage of that, but - she can't have got the wrong idea? Can she?"

"I don't know Fitz. I wasn't there and you aren't exactly giving me much..." Bobbi raised a pointed eyebrow.

"It's personal, Bobbi, and I won't betray her trust," Fitz snapped.

Bobbi stepped back, hands up defensively. "Alright, I won't push."

Again, Fitz, pivoted pacing, her remark unheard in his confusion, "But what do I do, Bobbi? I've never had a girlfriend before - I don't even have a sister! I have no data to extrapolate from!"

"Fitz!" Bobbi grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him forcefully. "Just stop! Okay? There is a simple solution to this problem, alright, just take a breath, okay?"

Fitz sucked in a gulping breath, and then another, calming down slowly.

"Jemma's a reserved person. You saw more than she probably wanted you too - she's still trying to make a good impression, trying to be an attractive prospect to you. She's probably embarrassed and just wants to distance herself from everything -"

\- like that frantic kiss. The way he'd so easily fallen into the trap of her arms and her desperate desire to be loved in that vulnerable moment. Distanced from all the things her father had said, and how foolishly, he, stupid idiot that he was, hadn't defended her honour, just sat and made kissy noises under a desk like some coward, distance from the way she'd cried, and he'd let her - because she hated crying, hated being weak, and he witnessed all that.

"-she's just skittish. She's type A. She needs to be in control, and she couldn't control the situation, it sounds like. But she's so into you. So just, maybe, back off a bit - let her calm down about it. Be there, but don't bring it up. If she wants to talk, she'll talk. But don't push for it. Maybe just... Give her some space to deal. She'll come back."

* * *

 

 

“ _Nobody puts Baby in a corner!_ ” Lance sobbed, blowing his nose into a tissue with a honk, his eyes red rimmed and glassy, his smile quivering on his lips. “You’re _so right_ Johnny, you’re _so_ right.”

Jemma petted his head fondly.

“ _What_? Don’t gimme that look, L’il. It’s a very _moving_ scene!”

Jemma nodded in agreement, dabbing a little at her own eyes as she leaned her head against Lance’s shoulder. “I know, Big. I think so too.”

“I just identify very strongly with Baby.”

“Me too.” Jemma said.

“Three guesses as to why.” Lance began, adjusting his arm around her so he could muss up her hair affectionately. “But I think, you know, take a lesson from Baby and Johnny - Baby put herself out there, she did something so risky, and she was scared, but she did it, even at the censure of her family, whom she loves. She put herself in the spotlight, when mostly she just preferred to fly under the radar. But Bobbi - I mean, Johnny, he saw that she had a good heart and that she kept tryin’, right? And he came back for her. It took him a while to sort of, get his head on straight, right? But that’s life, innit? People need time to process.”

Lance shifted around to look at her thoughtfully. “Fitz had a lot to process last night - and trust me, that is not a bloke who gets propositioned on the regular, if you know what I’m sayin’. Add to it, you, his dream girl, throwing herself in his arms - which congratulations by the way, that was a risky move, and I didn’t think you had it in you, L’il! - but also, he got a front row seat to the Simmons family dynamics and trust me when I say, even Eastenders doesn’t compare to _that_ drama. So he got to see you a bit mucky, a bit torn apart - You came off the pedestal, and he got to see your flaws.”

“Oh! Don’t remind me!” Jemma interrupted, burying her face in a pillow and flopping back dramatically over the chair arm. “My flaws will have sent him running back to Scotland!”

“Ay! I happen to have very good taste in drummers! And if Fitz is as good a guy as you’re haverin’ on about, then this business won't send him scurrying. Plus, any guy worthy of you isn't going to care about our bloody family drama anyway - He’d just want to be with you, regardless. So, you know,  let him process, and then let him come to you - you know?”

“Oh god,” Jemma groaned.

“And maybe that’s a good thing, Duck, all this family nonsense out in the open, because now he can see you, just as you are, not the way he wants you to be. Not like Dad….”

Lance pulled away, leaning on his bent knees, and in a quiet voice, added, “...Not like _me_ , sometimes.”

“Oh, Lance, no!”

“I’m really sorry, L’il, for putting so much on you. Curse of big-brotherdom, really. You see all this potential, and pretty soon, by accident, all you see is the possibilities, instead of maybe the person, all the time. And it wasn’t right of me.”

“ _Oh Big_ ,” Jemma sighed, giving him a side-ways hug. “I know your heart was in the right place. Now if only _I_ could see me for me, wouldn’t that be a feat?”


	16. Live Fast Die Young

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Lance and Bobbi realize their seperate advice to Fitz and Jemma would actually push the two farther apart than it would push them together, Mack takes Fitz in hand to explain the situation with some more clarity. Meanwhile, something is brewing in the streets of Brixton. Something dangerous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey Folks! Sorry for the wait, it's been a time, IRL for me, lately. So big apologies, and big thanks to Notapepper, who stayed up past midnight to give this chapter a final beta! 
> 
> In other news, there are some easter eggs in this chapter! One is to do with the history of Brixton in the 1980's (and will directly influence the next couple chapters) and the other is just a fun little cameo. Gold stars for whoever can pick them out!

* * *

 

_All is well._

That was what Jemma told herself, forcefully, as she scrubbed the dampened paper towel against her eyes.

It wasn’t a lie. Not really. She was still halfway numb, still desensitized. But the feeling was flowing back into her slowly. Distantly, like feeling heat again after spending all day in the bracing chill of December.

_It will be no different._

The lab would be empty. He wasn’t going to be there. He’d left a message with Geordie, a long, rambling, message about a Chevrolet and about how the next week would be difficult to make into the lab, with the influx of work at the garage. It was an excuse of course. It had to be. He’d seen her so rubbed raw, nothing but drift wood with flecks of paint left, cast about on a tide of ill-feeling and ugly emotion. He was probably frightened of her fragility. of how easily she splintered, how deeply those cracks drove down into her center. Now that he knew how much of her was plaster and paint, just covering up the dents and the faults in the finish.

But it would be no different than it had been for a very long time. She was alone, again. And that was fine.

She was used to that. It’d been a pleasant change of pace. Another body, the low hum of his voice, the cadence of his hands tapping out a rhythm as his mind worked a problem, clanging against a spare sheet of metal like a high-hat every now and then. It had been a bit of a bother to her concentration at first - his constant, restless movement, his sounds, filling up the space around her. She found her gaze wandering from the eyedropper in her hand to the way his hips and thighs would jolt with each movement against his invisible kick drum, drawing her eyes inevitably to his pert bottom, bouncing with the beat.

But things never lasted for her - not in that respect. Usually she lost interest. With men, she kept things light. Distant. Physical intimacy had never bothered her - the trappings of love and sex commingled in that, like some vague pantomime, like children playing schoolyard games of house or shop, without understanding. But she’d glimpsed it. She’d felt it, like a stream of pure, cool water, falling against her temple, when he’d pressed his lips to her hairline, when he’d whispered and kissed her softly, and with so much care.

She’d felt it then, understood how dangerous it was. Felt his kiss, his every touch, it felt it like it had poured gold kinstukuroi down through her splintered skin and into her soul, like it could make the ugly thing beautiful - like it could make her whole.

_All Is well. It will be no different._

_...But it could have been._

Jemma sucked in another shuddery breath, and swiped away the tiny tears that wetted her bottom lashes.

She risked a glance up, catching the eye of her reflection. Pale, red-eyed, splotches of red rising high alongside the freckles she’d uncovered in her mini-breakdown, swiping away her carefully applied foundation with every hasty wipe of paper towel, washed away with the tear trails she couldn’t catch.

“Don’t you _dare_ be upset about this,” She told her reflection sternly. “It’s your fault after all.”

She glared at the woman fiercely, her mouth tight and her brows hard. “You properly buggered it all up with Fitz with your stupid little _display_ , and now you’re doing the same thing here, in the _lab_ of all places.”

Jemma tossed her sodden paper-towel into the bin and then shook her finger at her reflection, “It doesn’t take a genius nearly with two Ph.Ds to realize this silly show of hysterics doesn’t work. It doesn’t get you anywhere. So pull yourself together, you crying little _whelp_ , and be a _professional_. This is your dream, this is your career. If you can’t even control something so inconsequential as your silly little emotions, how will you control an entire lab? _Hmm_?”

She placed her hands on the edge of the sink and leaned intimidatingly forward, nearly nose to nose with her reflection, her eyes burning and her lip twisted cruelly. “Pull it together. You’re _embarrassing_ yourself.”

With a short, firm nod to herself, she spun on her heel and strode out of the empty bathroom, into the equally empty hallway, and then into the even emptier lab, the silence echoing loudly around her.

* * *

 

“You didn’t come to the pub the other night,” Bobbi noted, off-hand, between sips of the milkshake Lance had brought her on her lunch. They whiled away the time, leaning against the cab of his delivery truck, outside the gates of the military base. Bobbi nudged him with her elbow, working the straw deeper into the messy liquid. “Everything okay?”

Lance was unnaturally quiet. Lost in thought, it took another nudge for him to realize his input was required. “Sorry, what?”

“Everything okay? I heard Dirty Dancing in the background…”

Lance shook his head, “Oh no - not for me, for Jemma. Things got dicey again. Almost as bad as when she was a kid, you know, with Harcourt, _the bastard_. He hit her again.”

“Oh no,” Bobbi breathed, squeezing his wrist comfortingly.

“Yeah. And I guess Fitz was there, hiding, because they needed some notes he’d stolen from her - called it Science-Fiction, if you can believe that - that twatfaced, sheepbuggering _dildo_! She finally said somethin’, I guess, and he slapped her. She’s got a bruise, Bob. And I can’t convince her to leave, can’t convince her to just cut the abusive _fuckwad_ out of her life. She’s so bloody scared of change, but she’s so exhausted too, and it’s like - I don’t know how much fight’s left in her. I don’t know how much more of this she can _take_. He’s been pulling her apart at the seams since she was a kid, since she first showed signs of being smarter than him - and now, it’s like he’s just pulling the stuffing out.”

“Is she at your place?”

“Yeah - for a few weeks. Hopefully it’s enough. But with this whole thing about Fitz being there - I’ve never seen her hung up over a bloke before, but I guess she kissed him, and he _pushed her away_. Starts off all hot and heavy, holding her close and taking her hand and …” Lance coloured, his tone garbled as he tried not to cringe as he said, “Helping her out of her clothes, and then, she gets all brave to kiss him, and he pushes her away. Like now she’s not good enough for him, _the twat_. An’ I guess he’s avoiding her now too - gave some malarky about having to work extra at the garage this week.”

“Oh.” Bobbi breathed, realization dawning. “Oh no. Lance. It wasn’t that.”

“What do you mean? It wasn’t what? Were you _there_?”

“No, no, but I did run into Fitz at quiz night,” Bobbi admitted, her expression pained. “In a terrible shirt-tie combo, trying to decide which flowers Jemma would like best. He was going to buy her _roses_. And _tiger lilies_. And _daisies_. And I’m pretty sure the _entire flower stall_ , if he could have afforded it.”

Bobbi let her head fall back against the truck with a sigh, casting her eyes to the sky, “He _wanted_ to ask her out, make some grand gesture. He didn’t push her away because he didn’t care - it was because he was trying not to take advantage of her when she was so vulnerable. He was trying to do right by her.”

“Then why’s he avoiding her, aye?”

Bobbi groaned and dragged her hands down her face. “Because I told him to,” she mumbled against her hands.

“You wha-?”

“I didn’t know she’d kissed him! I didn’t know the details! He refused to tell me!”

“Isn’t that your _job_?! Aren’t you supposed to be Military Intelligence Interrogator _extraordinaire_?! And you couldn’t crack Fitz?! _Fitz of all people_!?”

“ _He’s a puppy, Hunter_! It would have been like kicking a little pound puppy!” Bobbi punched Lance hard in the shoulder. “Shame on you!”

Bobbi held up her hands, continuing,“Plus, I thought he’d seen her in her underwear or something, or caught her crying, I don’t know. And you know how she gets about that stuff. She’s not one to dwell on her vulnerabilities. Stiff upper lip. Very British. How you became so talkative I’ll never understand,”

Lance groaned heavily, tossing his empty milkshake container at the nearby dumpster with a lackluster throw. “And that might have worked, I suppose, for Jemma to get over it, if _I_ hadn’t told her to let _him_ come to _her._ ”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

“So I stopped him from going adorably overboard, which was probably just the thing to ease her fears and insecurities.” Bobbi said.

“And I told her to let him do the heavy-lifting, when he’s too shy to make any untoward advances. And all she’s going to think about from now until forever is how badly she screwed up by being emotional after being slapped around.” Lance expelled a frustrated breath.

“And he’s going to think it was all just a giant mistaken bid for affection and attention, and that she’s not actually interested in him at all.”

“You know how cold she can get.” Lance intoned, wincing in remembrance.

“ _Oh yeah_. I remember. I still have frostbite from when she froze me out on our first break-up.” Bobbi quirked an eyebrow, a tiny, hairpin curve at the corner of her mouth.

“Serves you right. She made me watch _Beaches_.”

“You love Beaches.” Bobbi scoffed.

“I _do_. But it makes me weepy like a twelve year old girl on her period.”

“We suck at this.” Bobbi announced. “Matchmaking - not our game.”

“I suggest footie. I’m _loads_ better at footie.”

* * *

 

Fitz shifted under the lift, fiddling with the screws of the truck’s undercarriage. His fingers kept slipping, just like his focus.

_It’s not the same._

The garage was home, but missed the lab. He missed her. He missed the way her scent mingled with the acerbic smell of the cleaning agent. Missed the way a tool would find its way into his hand just when he needed it.

“Mack - the uh…” Fitz stuck his hand out, waiting for the monkey wrench.

_Everything feels off._

He couldn’t sleep for tossing about, waking up to fragments of dreams of her - her brook-brown hair, the fleeting touch of her lips on his, the ugent, needy grip of her tiny hands in his shirt.

His skin felt too small. It itched. It had itched for five days straight, like her little fingers had burned into him, like there should be blisters puckering up where her hands had touched him, searing him through. Five days he hadn’t seen her. Hadn’t called her. Had taken kitchen shifts at the pub to fill his distracted mind with other scents, other tasks, mindless, nothing jobs, where nothing reminded him of her. But still, she was all he could think of. He was starting to worry himself.

She hadn’t spoken to him.

Hadn’t dropped by band practice, or popped ‘round the garage. Hadn’t stopped in at the pub - he was starting to think she was avoiding him, and all he wanted to do was find her, to stick beside her, like some barnacle. Just press his mouth against hers, taste her tongue, feel the heat of her skin, hold her close.

Was he sick? If she didn’t want him, why was she the only thing that seemed to stick to the flypaper of his mind? Why couldn’t he let her go as easily as she’d let him? Had it meant so little to her? Was she so angry with him that she’d just cut him out completely?

He was too afraid to ask. He didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to think about the things they’d shared. The whispered words. The off-hand conversation about dreams and family and home in the lab. The half-spoken, half wished for things that had connected them, the strings they’d tied around each other, knotted up, already. How it probably didn’t mean anything really, to her, now.

But they’d tangled together. And it was all different. Everything was different. He loved her. It thrummed in him, like a deep ache, squeezing at his heart and his chest and trilling up his spine like a cymbal clatter.

_Everything is different. I love her. I love her so much. And she doesn’t feel the same._

A metallic clang startled him from his reverie, and he shot forward, smacking his head against the broad panel of sheet metal above him.

“-monkey wrench?” Mack called, bending low to witness Fitz roll himself from beneath the hydraulics.

“What’s up with you, man? You’ve been distracted for days. I’ve never seen you like this,”

“Well…” Fitz began, training his eyes into the distance and rubbing his head, thankful for the excuse for the pain he felt, as an excuse for the tears that sprang to his eyes. “There’s this girl that I...like...”

“Jemma Simmons, Hunter’s sister. Yeah, I’m up to speed on that, Turbo.”

“An’ we kissed. And she doesn’t feel the same as I do.” He shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “At least. I don’ think. S’not like she’s been talkin’ to me.”

“No offense, but that sounds like an excuse to me.”

Fitz quirked an eyebrow and swung around to look at his friend, where he perched on a stool. Mack leaned back against the shop counter, and shrugged, half-challengingly.

“What’s that s’posed to mean?” Fitz asked, accusatory.

“Listen, I love you man, but I’m just saying, you have a bit of a habit of sticking your head in the sand when it comes to stuff like this -” Mack gestured to the designs littering the walls, the blueprints rolled up and stuffed into old wash-pails, the applications still stacked neatly on the desk where Mack had left them originally, nearly a month ago. “Big stuff. Stuff that could change things around for you. You get all caught up, believing none of it’s gonna work out, that none of it’s meant for you, just because you hit a snag once or twice.”

“Hey -”

“That’s the problem with you brainy-types, Turbo. You never really hit snags - everything comes so easy. Then, when you finally make a mistake, if you fail just once, that’s it, you never get back up, because you think it’s impossible. But it’s only impossible because you haven’t tried. It’s only impossible because you believe it is. You’re a mechanic - sometimes you gotta fiddle under the hood a bit before the engine'll turn over. Doesn't mean the thing's never gonna work again.”

Fitz sighed, anxiously smoothing his mohawk with both hands. “This isn’t a car, Mack, it’s all...emotions, and...life.”

“It's the same with everything, little dude.”

“But it’s not the _same_ \- I was givin’ her _space_! Lettin’ her make the move, puttin’ the ball in her court.”

“Since when do you use sports metaphors?”

“You know what I mean.”

Mack sighed exasperatedly. “You got this weird belief that you ain’t good enough, man. And I don’t know where you get that from. Maybe it’s cause you grew up poor. Maybe it’s cause your pop left. I don’t know, but somewhere down the line, you got it into your head that you don’t measure up, for whatever reason. So you let yourself find problems where there aren’t any.”

“She hasn’t even talked to me in a week!” Fitz screeched, pushing himself off the rolly cart and onto his feet, kicking it aggressively across the floor and crossing his arms over his chest. “An’ she’s the _only_ thing I can think about! I can’t get her out of my head, Mack!”

“Have you talked to her?”

“No.”

“Ahh. I see what this is.” Mack said, nodding his head and gesturing to where Fitz paced angrily. “This is you, putting thoughts in her head.”

“What?”

“You ever asked her how she feels?”

“...no.”

“So you just decided that the best course of action after you kiss a girl is to avoid her completely.”

“Well...It wasn’t _ideal_ circumstances…”

Mack barked out a laugh that was three parts dismayed, one part shocked.

“An’ Bobbi said it was for the best!”

“You do realize Bobbi and Hunter break up _at least_ once a month? _Twice_ on holidays, right?”

Fitz stopped pacing, his expression looking increasingly bleak.

“They’re the last people anyone should be taking relationship advice from. Go find Jemma. Tell her how you feel. The poor girl’s probably just as nervous and scared as you are.”

* * *

 

The air seemed charged around her.

Jemma tugged her hoodie up farther, and pulled her leather jacket around her, quickly loping to the other side of the street around cars stopping at a light.

A police siren blared behind her, splitting the wall of vehicles as it sped through the cross-walk in front of her. Jemma jogged up to the corner, craning her head around to see a young man clutching his side and running, a cluster youths shouting taunts at his back.

“G’wan you!” One in a red sweat suit shouted, jumping up in exultation. “Ya na’ like dat! C’mere another time an’ I box ya again!”

A cop car veered around a corner a block away, speeding forward.

“Move yer backside, dem pigs is comin’ back!” one of the gang shouted, pulling at sleeves.

Jemma, afraid to get caught up on whatever activity was happening, quickly broke out into a jog. She crossed three blocks in quick succession, her adrenaline spiking strangely as she broke through the doors of the Queen Victoria, digging for the keys in her pocket.

She squeezed the sharp grooves into her palm and spun about, trying to locate the group. The Nightsticks had just finished a show, and Lance had called her down to bring his key - he was heading to Bobbi’s that night, and had forgotten them.

Jemma had planned on a quick in-and-out - hand the keys to Lance and then leave, but some instinct at the back of her mind warned her to linger. Outside, the air seemed to crackle with potentiality - and she couldn’t shake the sense that something was out of place, that something might happen.

Feminine hands clapped around her shoulder, and Jemma whipped around, startled. Bobbi backed off suddenly, hands up. “You okay?”

“Just...jittery. Strange night,” Jemma gestured vaguely toward the doors, “...out there.”

“Lemme buy you a drink.”

Bobbi steered Jemma toward the bar when Jemma suddenly remembered, “Lance’s keys!”

Bobbi waved her hand away and held up two fingers to the bar. “Two more, Izz!” She shouted over the din. “Here, you grab these -” Bobbi motioned toward four glasses of varying size, shape, and colour at Jemma’s elbow, and then pointed to a corner booth. “We’re over there,”

Jemma nodded, hugging the drinks to her chest. When she got to the table, Skye was being dragged away, beaming ear-to-ear, by Trip toward the darts. She gave Jemma an excited peck on the cheek and whispered, _“I think he’s going to ask me out!_ ”

Jemma grinned brightly at their receding figures, attempting, for their sake, to feel as happy as she looked. She pushed the drinks onto the table, and slapped Lance’s key’s into his hand. “Fitz, ah, not present?” she inquired, trying to sound nonchalant.

Lance dropped a kiss to the top of her hoodie, seemingly not having heard her, and motioned toward Bobbi. “I’m gonna help her with the rest of those!”

Jemma sighed, letting her shoulders slump, and slid into the empty booth. She stared into the foam of her beer between sips.

A moment later, a high-pitched giggle erupted from the aisle, and someone banged against the table.

“Excuse -” Jemma began, her pertubation morphing into surprise when she turned to witness the scene unfolding.

Fitz was backed heavily into the table edge, arching as if he might crawl on top of it next, in a bid to get away from the amply endowed, giggling woman. Her long, dark hair was glossy and shaved on one side from the temple to below her ear, and her hands were at the collar of her black, patched, denim button-down, holding the lapels wide open and leaning in. Her pillowy white breasts were nearly spilling out of her bra as she angled closer.

“Who erm, _uh-_ uum,” Fitz voice broke, and he tried to cover it with a cough, one hand slipping against the lid of the marker in his hand as he fought for control over his faculties, “-do I uh, make it out to?”

The groupie gave a slow, sultry smile and pressed her bosom into his chest, giving him ‘come-hither’ eyes. “To Heather.”

Jemma scoffed, turning away from the vulgar display, tipping her beer back and gulping furiously. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see his writing hand moving against her skin.

 _Disgusting._ She thought, adamant, once and for all, that she was well-shot of him, and the distraction he had presented. Why, she’d even been able to concentrate the dendrotoxin formula to such a degree that she’d been able to aerosolize it, and here he was, signing breasts and flirting with groupies, right in front of her!

She finished the last gulp of her beer just as the woman giggled prettily, blushed, and left with a flirty wave, stuffing a napkin (no doubt with her phone number, address, and social security number) into Fitz’s hand.

Jemma groaned, and coughed pointedly. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said curtly.

Fitz spun, a flabbergasted expression on his face. “ _Jemma_!”

“Yes, and you’re _Leo_ ,” she replied, coldly. “We’ve been introduced.” She motioned to aisle at the end of the bench, which he was blocking. He stood awkwardly, arms akimbo, gawking at her, from her hood down to her combat boots. “I know that must come as a shock to you, since you’ve rather taken to pretending I don’t exist.”

She slid out, standing intimidatingly close as she pushed off from the bench, nearly nose to nose. He smelled like copper and oranges, and that deep, heady indescribable scent, and traitorously, she wanted nothing more than to nuzzle into the juncture of his neck and rub it all over herself.

Colouring, she shifted her gaze to his face, her eyes catching on the shape of his half-parted lips. She blinked hard, and then pushed past him, soldiering purposefully toward the door.

Fitz stood, gawping. His mouth opened and closed as he watched her jostle against the bodies milling about. He hadn’t realized it was her, not at first, cornered as he had been, by the band’s ferocious groupie. He’d tried to avoid her - Lance had been the first to sign her body, a satisfied smile as he’d announced “We’ve made it now boys!”

Trip had signed her other...boob? _Bosom_? _Breast_? The other side of her chest, at any rate, and Lance had angled his signature from her hip onto her bottom, and he, well, he’d been trying to escape to hide in the shadows of the corner booth. It wasn’t that she hadn’t been pretty, because she was, but it just felt a bit disrespectful, really, to be manhandling her bits that way, especially when he’d been rehearsing in his head just what he wanted to say to Jemma when he saw her next.

And then, suddenly, someone was coughing behind him, and there she was, hidden beneath her hood, looking at him with daggers in her eyes, staring him up and down intimidatingly.

All of his careful words had flown, like birds from a cage, when he saw the fierceness in her gaze, the shuttered darkness in her eyes, the cold press of her lips into a thin line. It wouldn’t be enough - couldn’t be. Not when she looked at him like that. It didn’t matter. And now - having been momentarily struck dumb by surprise, circumstance, and the state of disrepair between them, he was stuck, rooted, watching the girl he ached for run out of the bar, and for all he knew, out of his heart.

Suddenly, jolted, he began to move, careening through the crowd until he hit the doors, throwing them wide. It was a strange sea of movement - throngs of people coursed down the sidewalk. He twisted, trying to catch sight of her, and out of the corner of his eye, glimpsed the familiar cadence of her shoulders as she jogged away.

He tore down the street after her, apologizing with half-shouts over his shoulder to the people he bumped and jostled along the way. He was nearly upon her.

“Jemma!” he called, trying to be heard over the blare of sirens and the clomping of feet. “ _Jemma_!”

She paused, turned, and then three gunshots rang out.

 ****  



	17. Blitzkrieg Bop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caught in the midst of the Brixton Riots, Jemma and Fitz struggle to get to each other in the midst of a brutal mob scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! So glad you've stuck it out this far to read on - I seem to be constantly apologizing these days for the lateness of chapters, but you'll only have to bear with me for a few more weeks, and then hopefully, life will right itself again! Either way, I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think! I looooooooooove comments!

 

* * *

 

The crack of gunshots shattered the air.

With a sharp intake of breath, Jemma’s eyes locked on Fitz’s. The world seemed to narrow to the sound, crumpling around them for an instant.

And then she fell.

Fitz watched, tears springing to his eyes as she careened onto the pavement. The sudden press of bodies trying to escape the intersection in front of her obscured his view, and his heart stilled in his chest.

“ _JEMMA_!” he screamed suddenly, diving forward, arms out, grappling at shoulders and elbows, throwing himself against the swell of the crowd.

Peeling around the corner, sirens blaring, a squadron of police vehicles squealed to a stop, just as another mob tore on foot from the far road, spilling into the intersection like cows being corralled. Picket signs were flung behind them, trying to hinder the nightmarish wall that squeezed them forward.

“Murderers!” someone cried, and suddenly, bricks were being lobbed against the wall of riot police, who banged their shields intimidatingly with their truncheons, moving inexorably closer, pushing the crowd together.

Fitz barrelled his shoulder into a leather jacket blocking his path. He reached up, clutching white knuckled at the sleeve and shoved it with all his force to the side, launching into a clear pocket of pavement, trying to get his bearings. “ _JEMMA_!” he bellowed, spinning around, his head whipping over his shoulder, frantic to find her.

Behind and around him, stone-faced police rained like a torrent out of the line of hastily parked vehicles, knifing into the crowd to contain and neutralize the mob scene. An explosion somewhere in the distance sounded.

Jemma pressed her palms to the pavement, gritting her teeth as she tried, for the third time, to get to her feet. The elbow to her spine from the terrified person who sped out from behind had knocked her flat, but the unintentional kicks to her ribs and the uncaring boot that had stepped heavily on her wrist had kept her there.

But now, a half-full vodka bottle with a lit dish rag had rolled directly in front of her face, and the coursing crowd around her had burst like a bubble. Hastily, she grabbed the molotov cocktail, wrapped her sleeve around her hand, and yanked the flaming rag from the neck, tossing it away in one direction, the bottle in another. She slapped her sleeve against her thigh to extinguish the tiny flames that licked along it.

“ _Fitz_!” she screamed, just as she was jostled from behind again. Quickly, she fell into step with the river of running feet, heading towards where she had seen him last.

_There._

Suddenly, she spotted him, his elbow connecting heavily with one man’s side and his face set grimly as he shoved another faceless person, nothing but clothes and a back to her, out of his way.

With a burst of relieved energy, she shot forward, squeezing past a skirmish at her side, just ducking from a policeman’s truncheon as it swept towards her face.

She spun, nearly losing her footing - nearly losing sight of him, until she righted again, and saw something that stopped her cold.

Behind Fitz’s inexorable, diving form, a figure in black loomed. From the side, two more black clad riot police cut through the crowd, heading right for him, truncheons raised. From behind, a clear riot-shield pulled back and shot forward.

Like it was slow-motion, Jemma lunged, hands outstretched, reaching for him like she could save him, like she could grab him, like he was right in front of her, like there was no distance between them, but _oh_ , there _was_ , _there was_.

After the sick crack of the shield against Fitz’s head, a shrill, dreadful shriek filled her ears. Her own.

“ _FITZ_! No!”

He wasn’t dead, but he was stunned, stunned enough to be dragged, dazed, into the alley-way beside him, his assailant tossing him into the opening and away from her view, the two other riot-police bisecting the press of bodies to follow their compatriot into the alley.

“ _Noooo!_ ” Jemma wailed, thrashing against the people that surrounded her, moving too slowly, too slowly -

“Jemma!” she heard, just above the din, and saw Fitz’s arm strike out, clutching hardscrabble against the bricks.

“Stand down!” she heard one of the cops yell. Fitz ignored the warning, dragging himself bodily from the alley.

She gasped sharply as a black-sleeved arm shot out, digging into his abdomen and dragging him back. He threw one last frantic, terrified glance in her direction before one of the other two swung wide with his billy-club, connecting hard with Fitz’s stomach, the force of it sending him recoiling backwards, into the shadows of the alley.

“ _Nooooooo!_ ” It tore from Jemma’s throat with a desperation that surprised her, like her deepest fear had clawed itself up from her belly and escaped out her throat to manifest before her eyes.

She couldn’t lose him. She refused.

They could take anything from her, anything, even her life, but they couldn’t take him.

She wouldn’t allow it.

With single-minded purpose, her vision tunnelled to her rapid rush toward the alley, and the grunts and anguished cries emanating from it. She didn’t notice - couldn’t even feel - the bangs of wild fists or scratching nails as she bulldozed a path for him, one hand digging through her bag.

Time seemed to stretch, lengthening with each step closer, and dread began to bear down on her, that regardless of her denial, she wouldn’t be quick enough, she wouldn’t get there in time, and it would all be for nothing.

As she rounded the corner, she squeezed her fingers around the cool metal of the canister stuck at the bottom of her bag. She had felt guilty sneaking it out. Lab protocols, but she’d wanted to make some observations when she’d left.

For the first time in her life, Jemma Simmons could care less about lab protocols.

Fitz was being half-dragged to standing by the towering policeman, trying desperately to curl in on himself, to brace himself against the blows that rained down on him from the fists and boots of the two policemen that beat him, barehanded.

“Fecking punk shithead!” one grunted, his fist landing hard against Fitz’s mouth, splitting his bottom lip, blood and spittle flying with his tiny, cut off cry of pain.

“ _STOP_!” Jemma commanded, launching into the attack, her hands closing like a vice against an upper arm rearing back to gain momentum.

With a snarl, Fitz’s assailant spun, trying to shake her off, shooting his elbow even farther back, catching her against her cheekbone with a thick, excruciating blow that unsettled her footing. She tripped backwards with a yelp, falling flat on the pavement. Her knuckles glanced hard, but her grip never loosening on the canister she held.

The blue liquid sloshed against the clear plastic as she flipped off the cap.

“Jemma _run_!” Fitz bit, between blows.

“Not a chance,” she declared, pushing her way to his side. Seeing what she held, he squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his  mouth and nose into his sleeve, hard.

She held the canister out with one hand, the other scrambling to cover her mouth and nose as the blue mist of dendrotoxin filled the air around them.

Even as his veins bulged, blackening beneath his skin, the towering cop dropped Fitz and swung to her, his hands going around her neck so fast she couldn’t react. The canister fell, forgotten as she scratched hard at the hands strangling her, her head banging hard against the brick wall of the alley.

She sucked in what little air she could, regardless of the dendrotoxin. Her vision was beginning to haze when, in an instant, there was a dull thud and her attacker crumpled with a whining groan. Splayed against the pavement, he gave in to the black sleep of the paralytic.

When Jemma came back to herself a second later, hand pressed against her mouth and nose, Fitz was on his knees above her, truncheon in one hand, the other pressed heavily against his face.

Adrenaline raced through her veins - she levered to standing. When Fitz saw the life return to her eyes, he dropped the billy-club in relief, moving to release his arm from against his airways.

“No!” Jemma shrieked at him against the cloth of her sleeve. “The dendrotoxin! You can’t! Not with your injuries!” Her voice was tremulous, with anger or fear or some combination of both, she couldn’t say. Instead, she surged forward, levering her shoulder underneath his free arm, carefully wrapping an arm around his waist and pressing in against him, steadyingly. He hissed beneath her, looking as though he would move his hand from his face, when he caught her fierce glare.

“Jemma - your airways…” he mumbled against the cloth, looking concerned as she turned them to run down the alley, away from the dropped policemen and the dissolving blue fog.

“I’ll be fine for a little bit - I didn’t breath in much at all anyway… and the adrenaline -” Paranoid, she swung a petrified glance toward the approaching alley openings, craning her head to see if the riot had spilled more brawls into the relative safety of the alley.

“We’ll have to account for that in the next round of development,” she muttered, rushing them forward as he dropped his arm, far enough away from the dendrotoxin cloud to be safe now. Fitz chuckled at her statement, and then winced.

“Go that way -” He pointed down another alley off-shoot. “The garage is closest, and you’ll succumb once the adrenaline fades.” His eyes narrowed suspiciously as he cast his gaze back to her, where she nodded, soundlessly, preoccupied.

Her breath puffed heavily in her chest, even though she wasn’t taking much of his weight. She felt thready, like her strength was hanging on by nothing but a few knotted strings.

The garage would be good. Best, really. She needed to get him somewhere safe, see to his injuries - that split lip and she was sure he had a few broken ribs - before the black sleep travelling up her veins with every heartbeat took hold.

She only hoped that her dose had been mild enough that the rush of adrenaline was able to break it down sufficiently to hold off until that point.

“There,” he grunted, pointed to a padlocked, shabby door with peeling green paint.

Fitz dug into his pocket for the keys as Jemma pressed closer, scanning the vicinity for danger. With a metallic groan, the door slid open. Fitz grimaced, ushering her inside with a relieved exhalation.

The door slammed shut behind them, and finally, they were safe.

 


	18. I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally safe, locked in Mack's garage, Fitz and Jemma are forced to come to terms with what's between them, as the Brixton Riots rage around them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey Y'all!!! So here is the much awaited chapter! I hope you like it! Big thanks to Notapepper for her fantastic beta work!

* * *

 

As soon as the metal door slammed shut, Fitz flipped the latch, and tamped down the padlock, thankful for the security features Mack had installed. The area wasn’t normally ‘dangerous’, but it wasn’t exactly safe either, and so the other man’s sound judgement had once again proven a boon.

Jemma had rushed off to flip on lights and to snatch the First Aid kit from the wall, racing back to him before he’d even been able to take a step to her side.

“Jem-” He winced as she came in contact with his side, her tiny hands wrapping around his torso to support his movements. He sucked in a pained breath, and pressed his hands over hers, unable to stop himself from running his thumb over her knuckles.

“Let’s get you to the couch and see to the extent of your injuries.” Her voice was tight and tremulous, but just as stubborn as ever.

He let her lead him into the office, letting his head droop, trying not to be too obvious as he took a steadying breath against her hair, breathing in her coconut scent, and the relief of having her near, having her safe. His vision started to get blurry with the realization that he’d almost lost her, that she could have died, trampled, and he mightn’t have been able to save her.

He removed his hand from where it’d been gripping hers tightly, and quickly brushed away the tears with a sniff. He hoped she didn’t notice.

Luckily, adrenaline was still zipping through her as she deposited him on the couch, and wheeled over a tool tray. She broke open the First Aid kit and peered between him and it, assessing his condition with lingering glances.  “Jemma, please, _just_ \- just sit, the dendro-”

She shook her head, cutting him off with the jerky movement, and pressed her lips tightly together. She hated the way her hands convulsed, like some palsied thing, the way her heart seemed to beat out of tune, and couldn’t help the embittered half-growl, half sob as she dropped a pair of tiny scissors, unable to keep her grip on them.

He had almost _died_. They had taken him, and if it hadn’t been for her, frankly, _absolutely foolish_ use of an untested paralytic, she wouldn’t have been able to help him, she would have been helpless to save him, and she would have had to watch as they laid blow upon blow on his body.

Her thoughts tracked to his injuries again, and she latched on like a person obsessed. “Not until I’m sure - you could have internal _dam_ -” She choked back a sob, clearing her throat as she pulled the tray, dropping to her knees at his feet, “-damage. I need to thoroughly examine you.”

Fitz gulped, trying to work the thickness in his throat down, upon seeing her so upset. She’d fallen to her knees in front of him, and all he could think about was the way she looked up at him, desperate and pleading and wanting, her eyes swimming with unshed, guilty tears, and all he wanted to do was to kiss them away, and hold her to him, and feel her against him, know she was real, and that she was fine, and that they were together, safe, even though the world around them raged.

“You’re hurt too,” he murmured, running his thumb tenderly against her swollen, red cheek.

She grimaced and recoiled, and angrily said, “Not nearly so bad as you! You stupid man! How could -” She snapped her mouth shut, and stared at him, infuriated, as a few tears spilled down to her quivering chin.

It was enough to silence him.

Her trembling hands were suddenly pushing at the hem of his t-shirt, determined. Seeing what she was trying for, he reached behind him, hissing at the movement, and began pulling it off. “- _Need_ to,” she whispered, half to herself, unblinking as she helped him draw the fabric free, “- Just need to. Make sure you’re…”

She looked at him with such unabashed care that he had to suck in a shaky breath, awash with emotion, ”-alright.” She breathed, placing her palm over his now bare chest, right against his heart-spot, her eyes sinking shut, her lashes clumped with tears.

She felt his heart pump, hot beneath her hand, convincing herself of its efficacy, and sucked in a deep breath, holding it tight, stilling her limbs against the feeling of him under her palm, against her desire to crash against him, to pull him to her and never let him go again, against the wracking sobs that fought for purchase, scratching up her throat so terribly, knowing she’d put him in this position. She knew this was _her_ fault. _Her_ problem. And if there was one thing Jemma Simmons did, it was to fix her problems.

Blinking until her vision cleared, she avoided looking up at his face, instead, pursing her lips clinically as she ran her hand down to the blossoming bruises, purpling against his ribs.

“Shite!” he cursed, sucking in an injured breath against her prodding. “Sorry.”

Jemma just nodded. “There may be one broken, at most, but I think they’re mostly bruised.”

_She_ did this. It was _her_ fault. He was coming to get her. Coming to help her...Like he always did. Why did he have to be so bloody _good_ all the time, why did he have to try so hard for her? Didn’t he realize how _bloody important_ he was?

She pushed to standing, in a rush, knocking against the First Aid kit, ripping at it in frustration, digging around for the tenser bandage she’d just had her hands on - she could swear it was _right there_ -

“Sit, _please_ , please Jemma, don’t fuss about me - It’s not a big deal-” His hand was tentative at the back of her jumper, tugging at her hem - it was suddenly too much.

“It _IS_ a big deal, _Leo_! How _dare_ you say -” A frustrated cry slipped out of her mouth as she wheeled around, closing in on him, slapping at his shoulder with the tenser. The tears she’d been holding back shaking free with each angry wrench of her head back and forth. “ YOU IDIOT! YOU STUPID, _STUPID_ MAN! How _dare_ you say it isn’t! You’re hurt! You’re _HURT_! Can’t you understand how _bloody unbelievably stupid_ -!”

She shrieked as he pulled her to him, tripping a little against the jut of his knees, her sobs taking over now as he pressed his face against her chest and wreathed his arms around her waist tightly, embracing her.

She pounded at his shoulders ineffectually, slipping down to her knees against him, clutching angrily at his thighs, as his hands brushed her hair from her disconsolate face, shaking his head in the negative. “It wasn’t stupid - it was _you_ ,” he whispered, his fingertips soft at her temple, trying to will her to understand as he attempted to smile through his tears.

“YOU BLOODY IDIOT! I _KNOW_! It was _JUST ME_! You should have left!” Her nails dug into his jean-clad thigh, going knuckle-white with her terrified, anguished insistence.

“How could you I _leave you_?! In the middle of a-” he snapped, throwing up his hands, gesturing to the rising fervour sounding outside the doors -

“-YOU SEEMED HAPPY ENOUGH TO LEAVE ME LAST WEEK!” she shouted, angry and frustrated and surprised, shooting to her feet with a yelp, spinning on her heels to get away - trying to somehow escape the admission she’d blurted out.

Fitz grabbed for her hand. “ _Hey_!”

He shot to standing, grimacing at the pain, putting his hands on her shoulders and forcing her to turn to face him, her face a mask of anguish. “How could you ask me to _leave you_?! In the middle of _that_!? You could have been -” He hadn’t meant to snap, to be so angry, but the way she was so dismissive, how little she cared about herself, it knifed into him, worse than the rib in his side -

“-You _have_ to understand!” she insisted, clutching desperately at his sides, her nails scratching against his skin.

“-Can’t _stand_ to see you -”

“- _hurt_ , and just throwing yourself into danger!”

“It doesn’t -”

“ -You can’t just _do_ that for me!”

“ _Why not_?!” he screeched, shoving himself away from her, so he didn’t crush her to him, so he didn’t kiss her hard and leave her breathless, so he didn’t give away a love she clearly didn’t want -

“Because _I_ don’t matter!” she shrieked at him, throwing her hands up in aggravation.

“- _You do to me_!” He interrupted.

“- _You_ do!” She finished at the same time, “I care about _you_!”

Everything stopped. There was no sound but their high, shallow breathing.

Their eyes fixed upon each other as though they were ships, spying each other through a looking-glass at a great distance. His hands closed upon the fabric at her elbows, slowly reeling her closer, not daring to break their joined gaze.

His eyes were so blue, so full, his expression so tender and full of love. She felt the tight line of her mouth quiver, her resolve crumbling at his insistent tug. Tears fell against her cheeks, and he bent down slightly to kiss them away -  a small, chaste, pure press of lips against each corner of her eye. Like the flutter of a butterfly against her rising bruise, her rapidly blackening right eye.

She slid her hands urgently against the warmth of his biceps, dragging one along his shoulder and into the short, buzzed hair at the side of his head, her other drifting down to press against his heart, to feel it pulse, to remind herself that this wasn’t a dream, that this was him, and her, together. That this moment was a real, flesh and blood thing.

She levered herself to her tiptoes, her breath curling against the side of his face as she closed the distance between them, her hand rising to cup his jaw, thumbing rubbing against his stubble. She looked deep into his eyes, unblinking. Expelling a needy breath, he fell upon her lips.

His kiss was a calamity. She whimpered against the softness, the urgentness, and pressed up with a small moan. He took advantage of the tiny opening, sliding his tongue against her bottom lip. She chased his with her own, and he whimpered, leaning further into her, his hands finding the sides of her face. He spun them around, walking her backwards toward the couch.

She breathed heavily against him, struggling to keep her mouth against his in the backward movement. A small whine scurried out of her throat as she flicked her tongue out against his upper lip. With a sudden rush, she felt herself falling back, Fitz’s arms steady about her as her head hit the couch cushions, and his body pressed against the length of her. He broke their kiss with a hiss, reaching suddenly for his ribs.

“That was a bad idea,” he winced, one eye closing, his mouth pulling into a wry grimace.

Jemma shifted around him, pulling her knees on either side of her hips and scrambling for the discarded tenser, somewhere around her elbow. “Oh!” she exclaimed, pressing a careful hand against his, where it hovered at his ribs.

She pressed a few quick pecks to the underside of his chin and said, “This won’t be a moment.” With deft hands, she had his ribs wrapped, and was tucking the ends of the bandage against the wrapping at his spine, allowing her hands to travel, exploratorily, down those inked planes and into the edge of his jeans, smoothing her hands against the slight curve of his bottom with a hitched inhale.

He stuttered forward suddenly, thrusting automatically against her inner-thigh, “Jem!” he cried, burying his head into the crook of her neck at the sensation against his cock as Jemma lifted her pelvis off the cushions to meet him, dragging the hot centre of her jeans against the rigid bulge.

She gasped, her eyes falling shut. He surged forward, capturing her mouth and pressing kisses to it. He rolled his hips against her again with a forceful need, and she keened into his mouth, her tongue delving as her lips moved over his, urgently.

She tasted something metallic and tangy; copper on her tongue. She pulled back suddenly, concern in her eyes. “Fitz! Your lip!” Her hands were suddenly at his face, her thumb brushing with infinite tenderness against the cut there. Her brows were furrowed deeply in concern and he chuckled.

“Yeah,” he said, “It hurts like a bastard.” He grinned cheekily. “So we better make it worth it.”

She made a wanton noise, and curled her fingertips into his stubbled jaw, dragging him to her. He went with a pleased hum, his hand skating up her side and up to the side of her face, cupping and angling it, kissing her deeply and passionately, until she gave a sharp cry of pain. Instantly he pulled back.

“What did I do?” he begged, turning her face this way and that as she cringed and hissed, her hand at his wrist, not wanting to break his warm touch from her face, but pained with the pressure of his thumb against her bruised cheek all the same. “Ack!” he cried, pulling away like he’d burned her when he realized.

“No, no!” Jemma whined up at him. “It’s fine - it’s fine, just…”

“Gentle?” He brushed the tip of his nose against the bridge of hers.

A large, fond smile unfurled on her mouth, shining up at him. She bit her bottom lip. “Yeah.”

With a broad grin of his own, he dropped a smiling, soft kiss upon her lips. Tenderly, she stroked the side of his face.

While the sounds of the riot outside grew louder, inside the garage, they were a distant hum, background noise to the cocoon of peace and contentment that existed in the tiny office, lit by flickering halogen bulbs, illuminating the soft rise and fall of the two bodies, moving slow and tidal against one another, kissing and caressing over clothes, undulating in soft, gentle movements, mindful of each other’s injuries - every brush of a palm filled with sweetness, every drift of tongue tasting of tenderness.

Jemma’s movements were beginning to slow. Her limbs slackening beneath him, the adrenaline fading from her system - and his as well, if he was honest.

“Jemma, sweetheart,” he murmured against her collarbone, sliding wet, hot kisses against the skin there.

She hummed softly in answer, scratching at his scalp absently. He craned his head up. Her eyelids were droopy, and she smiled down at him, the corners of her mouth lazy and half-bowed.

“You’re fallin’ to the black sleep. It’s the dendrotoxin, catchin’ up to you.”

She shook her head no, and pouted. “‘m fine - I swear.” She brushed her fingertips over the shell of his ear, beckoning him upwards. He complied with an affectionate, lopsided smile, his eyes filled with a kind of tenderness she’d never seen before.

“Kiss me again?” she asked, suddenly shy.

He nodded as he descended, his kisses as slow as molasses, sweet and rich, until he felt the movement of her fade beneath him. With a little chuckle, he pulled back, taking her in.

She was asleep. Her hair was spilled around her like a dark halo, her mouth, half-parted, her eyelashes fanned against her cheeks. He pulled the blanket off the chair arm to drape it over the both of them, snuggling into her back, fitting his knees behind hers and winding an arm around her waist. He breathed in the scent of her, and tucked his chin against her shoulder.

Fitz hugged her closer. “G’night Jemma. Sweet dreams. I think I love you,” he whispered into her ear, before falling into a contented sleep himself.

 


	19. Perfect World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the night spent together in Mack's Garage, Fitz and Jemma explore their new found relationship, and spend the morning getting to know each other in a whole new way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooooo...spoilers, this chapter is very NSFW, but I also RIDICULOUSLY FLUFFY. BECAUSE I LOVE YOU ALL.
> 
> And on this American Thanksgiving week, I would like to give thanks for my most wonderful beta, the lovely Notapepper, who took time away from her busy IRL life to edit my work!
> 
> I hope you like it! Lemme know what you think!

* * *

 

Jemma’s hood had somehow managed to find its way over her hair and twist itself so it half-covered her face. Her hair spilled out from beneath it, making her breathing one ragged edge away from a snore. On her side as she was, half flipped over and clutching Fitz’s arm to her face, her open mouth (to better facilitate her breathing, beneath the curtain of hair covering her mouth and nostrils) had just ever so slightly begun to drool, coating Fitz’s wrist in a small stream of saliva.

Perched against the back of the couch, he peered, dreamily, down at the scene before him. He had been smiling in his sleep. He had realized it upon waking due to the persistent moisture on his arm. Fitz had shifted, ever so slightly, to see her curled up around him, blanket in a death-grip (much like his arm) tugged tight over her head, one knee tucked into her torso so gymnastically high it was impressive, whilst her other leg was haphazardly strewn over both of his, her heel pushing into his calf heavily.

God she was cute. The way she sprawled out against him in sleep, all strange angles, like a circus contortionist - it made him chuckle. With a contented sigh, he extricated his numbed arm from beneath her neck, settling her down against the couch arm, and exercised it back to feeling. Once the pins and needles had faded, he leaned over, gently tugging the hood from her face, and pulling the messy strands of hair from across her mouth and nose, fitting them behind her ear.

With a twitch and a catlike stretch, her high-held leg extending out, flexing her toes, while her other leg straightened, removing itself from his calf, Jemma yawned, and woke.

“Hello, sleepyhead.” He’d had an unaccountable urge to give her some ridiculous pet name, to call her Chestnut, or Kitten, or something she’d surely renounce later. He brushed a clump of sleep from her eye and bent to kiss her cheek.

“Morning -” Jemma began. Her half-lidded eyes flew open suddenly, as she pawed at her lips with the back of her hand. “-oh god! Did I -” She wiped away the drool that had trailed down the side of her face, and pushed herself to sitting. “Did I drool last night? On you?”

Fitz shrugged with a warm, mischievous smile, and then swiped his slimy wrist against the sleeve of her jumper. “Well... _technically_ \- yes, but, erm,” he flushed, levering himself to sitting, and looking away from her as they righted themselves, “But...it was worth it,” he finished, flicking her a quick, red-cheeked glance.

Jemma leaned away with an excited giggle, and then pitched back, knocking her shoulder with his with a chuffed little smile. “Really?”

“Well, I’d _prefer_ y’didn’t drool every time we happen to fall asleep together,” he began in a teasing tone. “If I was into that kind of thing, I’d have got myself a Great Dane…” he said with a wink as she shoved him lightly in the side.

Taking the opportunity of her closeness, and the bend they’d turned in their relationship, he reached out, his fingers combing into her hair, and drew her towards him again, slowly parting his lips as their faces angled, pressing close.

Almost instantly they broke apart at the stench of sour, beery breath. Jemma giggled hard, bringing a hand to her mouth, her eyes crinkling with laughter. Fitz sputtered and grimaced.

“Morning br-”

“Beer night afters.”

They looked at each other and shuddered.

“Instituting rule one - teeth brushing before morning kisses,” Jemma sniggered behind her hands.

“Yeah,” Fitz agreed emphatically, pulling her to standing, rubbing her arms from her wrists to her shoulders, and then smacking a kiss to the top of her messy hair. He could touch her now, and he was feeling a little drunk with it - this new allowance with her skin and her lips and her bashful, flustered little smile. “Yeah,” he said again, “You tasted much better yesterday.”

Jemma smacked him lightly on the shoulder as she snuggled into his naked, tattooed chest, her face pressed against a rose that rested just above his nipple. He was hot as a furnace, and she liked the way he smelled right at that moment. Mannish and tangy, like he bathed in citrus fruit or something.

She let her hands trace the lines that whorled along his forearm, up to his shoulder, as they fell into a soft silence, Fitz’s arms tightening around her waist, molding her chest to his, scratching his nails along her shoulder blades in smooth strokes, enjoying the feel of her.

“My hair’s a mess. And my makeup’s all run,” Jemma mumbled, eyes closed against his chest.

“Mhmmm,” Fitz agreed, not bothering to move his cheek from where it was pillowed against her head. His eyes were closed too.

“And my clothes are in need of a wash. Footprints everywhere. Dirt. Soot.”

“Mhmmm,” Fitz agreed again, lazily.

“We need to move at some point, Fitz,” Jemma giggled.

“Nope. No we don’t. Already moved,” He murmured against her hair, sneaking even closer, his hips plastering against hers. “Here’s good.”

He could feel Jemma’s grin against his pectoral muscle, and wondered, absently, if the wicked curve of her lip was a good thing, or something he should be wary of.

Suddenly, he yelped in surprise and danced back, hopping away from her tickling hands. “Ack! Y’harpy! No ticklin’!”

Jemma cackled triumphantly, and raised her hands like mock claws. She then proceeded to chase him around the tiny office. “What’ll you do to make me stop?”

“I’ll brush my teeth!” he cried, pushing at her hands where they dove for the sensitive skin of his sides. Laughter bubbled up until he was gasping. “I’ll let you shower!”

Breathlessly, having fallen down on the couch under the force of her malicious tickle attack, he grasped her hands and whimpered, “I’ll toss your clothes in the wash!”

“Ahh,” she said, her eyes twinkling with merriment, “All fine things and all I expect to be seen to, but I was hoping you’d take the more romantic route…”

He slowly allowed her weight to descend on top of him. The press of her breasts against his torso was maddening. “Romantic -?”

“-kiss me into submission?”

With an off-kilter, sideways grin, he pulled her hands around his neck, into the curls at his nape, and kissed her soundly, slotting his mouth over hers. Their tongues met, playful and teasing, as she pulled back, shaking her head and cringing. “Teeth brushing. Showers. Wash. We’re a mess, Fitz.”

* * *

 

After her bracing shower, Jemma slipped into Fitz’s far over-sized Black Flag t-shirt. It was running a little thin, the ribbing at the neck and arms a bit pulled and holey, but it was soft with wear and comfortable, the hem skimming the tops of her thighs, just far enough below her bum to keep things decent, while her clothes finished their tumble-dry.

Her face was scrubbed to a bright, clean glow, and she felt rather pretty like this, her hair damp and deeply parted over one ear, looking as though it were the morning after a far more boisterous evening. She sighed a little in regret. She would of course, try to follow those pre-ordained Cosmopolitan Magazine relationship rules Skye was always going on about, but honestly, she had just been thinking about it for so long...

She squeezed her eyes shut, savouring the flash of memory where he had been in those same showers, just as naked, his hands wringing out a climax and calling her name -

Jemma bit her lip and groaned in frustration. _Three dates._

But did Cosmopolitan Magazine consider running from an angry riot scene to be date one, or date two? Or did the dating officially only start once the intended couple had formally announced their feelings for each other? Or did it begin with the traditional ‘dinner and a movie’ date? How did one manage to know just where they stood on the sliding scale of sexing up one’s (what she considered, at this point, but arguably she could be wrong - they hadn’t made any declarations of intention, hadn’t put names to it -) boyfriend, in the non-traditional situation one had found herself in?

And really, did that sliding scale take into account the rather broad range the term ‘sex’ encompassed? Why, just off the top of her head _alone_ , there was oral sex, hand jobs, anal sex, frottage, and mutual masturbation, which included no vaginal penetration, but were, quite clearly from the intent of the action, sex.

Honestly, where did hand jobs fall on the list? Could she convince him that cunnilingus was a viable second (if one took into account their declaration of feelings yesterday as the first) date activity? To be reciprocated of course - she was rather eager to attempt fellatio, given what she’d seen of him in that memorable... _sneak peek_ ,  as it were.

“I mean, there _are_ rules to this,” she told herself in the mirror, watching as her eyebrow quirked up. She pointed a finger at herself. “But really - one _might_ consider that night with the field trip to the study to be date one, and I was ready to forgo such rules then, so the rules have quite been tossed out the window since then, haven’t they? So it's rather a loop hole.”

Jemma tugged on the hem of her shirt, twisting to see how it looked from the back, and how appealingly it fell against the curve of her bottom. She adjusted it accordingly, and told the mirror, “And, one _can_ argue that regardless of the third date rule, if one only considers vaginal sex to be sex, then a _minor_ bit of fellatio or a handjob is really just foreplay…”

She shrugged. “ _I_ am not that one, but somewhere, someone is - and _probably_ the one who decided the Cosmopolitan Magazine rule, honestly, so I’m not breaking any rules by attempting to seduce my…” She scrunched her face up in minor confusion - was he her boyfriend? “ _my_...Fitz?”

She took one last appraising look at herself in the mirror, and exited the small locker room.

Back in the main part of the garage, out on the shop floor, Fitz was tinkering under the hood of the red Chevy. It was a nervous tick, tightening bolts and adjusting belts, just a tad. Mack would appreciate it later.

Once he heard her approach, he stuck the rag in the back pocket of his acid wash jeans, and closed it up, turning around and scooting to sit on the hood. Fitz tilted his head, dragging his eyes up her scantily clad form, a reminiscent blush clouding pink across the bridge of his nose and onto the tips of his ears. He bit his lip at the fond memory, his mouth creasing into a wide grin, an appreciative hunger in his eyes.

“What?” Jemma asked, suddenly shy, her plans of seduction promptly falling away as her shoulders caved in, her heel turning in and her hands flying to her hem, tugging it down further to hide her shapely thighs.

Fitz couldn’t help the small, knowing smile. “Nothing,” he declared, shaking his head and extending his hand for her, as he tried (unsuccessfully) to lean back on the hood, balancing on an elbow like something out of a James Dean movie. He slipped twice, and then gave up.“It’s just - it’s nearly the same outfit,”

“As what?!” she asked, perplexed, slapping her hand in his.

“As when I first met you,” he chuckled. “You might remember it best as the night you accosted me quite ferociously with a cushion.”

“Oh!” Jemma brought her hands up to her face, and then glanced at him through her fingers. Fitz could see the deep pink of her cheeks through the tiny glimpse. “I didn’t think you’d noticed,” she whined, embarrassed.

“When a girl’s in fron’ of me in nothin’ but a t-shirt and the world’s _tiniest_ knickers, I notice,” Fitz deadpanned, raising an eyebrow. Then he scratched at his temple and shied his gaze away, blushing hotly. “In fact, I erm…” He tilted away as she bumped her shoulder against his. “I though’ I was dreamin’. When you firs’ walked in, in that dress.”

Now it was Jemma’s turn to turn away, realization dawning as she felt her cheeks flush in horror. “Oh my gosh. I can’t believe you saw that.”

Fitz wreathed his arms around her waist with a laugh, and pulled her back between his thighs. “Come on now, Jemma - s’nothin’ to be embarrassed about,”

Jemma barked out a disbelieving giggle, and then caught herself dead - remembering suddenly - “...The fridge?”

Fitz grinned, feeling unaccountably brave, and pulled a pliant Jemma up onto his lap. With another surge of courage, he bent to nuzzle the side of her neck. “Or as I like to call that fridge, Saint General Electric, Patron Saint of very, _very_ lucky drummers,” he whispered into her ear as she collapsed into embarrassed giggles.

His hands longed to explore the softness of her belly. As she doubled-over and slapped at his thigh, he clutched her closer, to keep her from slipping on the hood, and his thumb accidentally skimmed the underside of her breast through the thin material.

It was soft against the pad of his thumb, the weight of it giving against the tiny pressure. He could feel Jemma’s high, excited intake of breath, just as his own stilled inside his chest.

_Well, time to live up to your namesake, Leopold - be a little lionhearted?_ Fitz spurred himself on, daring his finger to reverse its swipe against her flesh.

With a foolhardy movement, he raised his hand a few millimeters, to drag both the tips of his finger and thumb back over the underside of her breast. There was a strange, pendulous quality to the feel of it, unencumbered by a bra to mold it, and he liked how warm she felt right there, and how her back arched against him in a forward stutter, like she couldn’t help pressing her breast more firmly into his grip.

He peeked over her shoulder, watching the way she moved, the way the fabric puckered around her nipple, pushing up in arousal.

Her hand at his thigh fluttered for a second, and then stroked deliberately upward, her thumb sweeping tantalizingly against the crease between his thigh and his crotch, and he could feel his cock begin to swell.

“Saint General Electric? Really?” Jemma insinuated breathlessly, her other hand finding its way to play against the small hairs of his forearm, his fingers playing carefully along the outline of her breast, urging him on.

_Jesus, Mary, and Joseph_ \- Jemma Simmons was squirming on his lap in nothing but her cotton knickers and a borrowed t-shirt, stroking his thigh and urging him to play with her tits. This had to be a dream.

_If it is, it’s one I’m not waking up from, damn it,_ he thought with a low growl deep in his throat. He turned into the long line of her throat, and nipped, soothing the love-bite with his lips and tongue as she sighed and shuddered beneath him. _Never waking up again._

“Fitz,” Jemma breathed, letting her head loll back as she clasped two fingers on his exploring hand to pull the whole thing up and re-position it, with prejudice, on the rounded swell of her breast, running her hand down over his to direct his movements, trying to insinuated just what he could do with those perfect, articulate, warm hands of his, and just what she liked, and just how much she wanted him to.

Fitz had never been accused of being a slow learner, thankfully, for Jemma’s palm dragged along his bicep, up the line of his shoulder and neck, against the short, buzzed hair at the side of his head, and dragged his face to hers, her thumb stroking the stretch of skin behind his ear, like it was her favourite place to pet.

His hands palmed her breasts through the barely-there material, thumbing at the pebble-hardness of her nipples, pinching them for the way it made Jemma squirm, rubbing her bottom against the fly of his jeans. She arched and tilted her head to capture his lips, her tongue hot and heated and suggestive as it penetrated his mouth, insinuating other acts, other touches, other places hot and wet and waiting for him.

When they broke, pupils dilated and unblinking as they stared wantonly into each other’s eyes, their hands ran over skin, learning by rote the way they moved and felt together, finding the movements that made them shudder.

His confidence faltering under the newness of it all, Fitz’s grin slipped and he began speaking to break the breathy, expectant, aroused silence between them. “Mhmm,” he panted, “Saint General Electric. Acts of veneration -”

He bit his lip, and looked at Jemma questioningly, his fingers sneaking under the hem of the thin t-shirt. She hitched a breath, but looked at him over her shoulder, and nodded.

“Acts of veneration, um, in- _ah_ ,” he whimpered suddenly, when she took a hand from where it had been petting her breast and testing its weight over her shirt, and dragged it slowly down her abdomen, over her belly, until he felt the skim of cotton on his fingertips. “-include…”

Unable to carry on his sentence, he tipped his glance downward, pulling the t-shirt fabric up as one hand moved up to the hot weight of her breast - oh Jesus, she felt so bloody _soft_ \- He just had to see it, had to see his hand splayed against her little cotton pants, and - oh _Mother of All Things_ -

“ _Christ_ Jem,” Fitz whined in a heady mix of sexual frustration and desire, “ _Days of the Week_ knickers, oh _fuck_ ,” he cursed, pinching her nipple and pulling it taut, curling a finger against the moist cotton gusset, right against her seam, forcing her to cant her hips to meet his seeking finger, “An’ you’re _so_ wet already.”

Jemma just nodded, not trusting her words as his fingers began to stroke over the cotton picture of _Li'l Miss Friday_ , pressing a little closer at each pass to where she desperately wanted them, the sensations he was wringing from her body already knocking out the word center of her brain.

God, he was good at this - so bloody good. With a tiny mewl, she bucked her hips up, trying to catch some pressure against her clit.

_Oh fuck - did she-?_ “Are you sure?”

He whispered it into her ear, his breath eddying maddeningly against the shell of it, driving her this close to wildness, writhing on his lap. His fingertips stilled at the elastic waistband of her pants, waiting for her consent.

With a tremulously insistent “ _Yes_!” she ground her ass backwards along the rigid line that had twitched up against his fly, and he groaned, bucking into the movement, rubbing himself along her cleft.

It was all he needed. His hand moved purposefully to cover her mons, drawing sensation like water from a well with every soft movement over her slit, his fingers delving into her wetness, searching with an intent focus, for that little nub of feeling. His thumb began to circle her clit, and he heard her purr, bowing out into and arch against him, her head heavy on his shoulder as his other hand moved to her waist, pulling her tight. His eyes were focused below, on his hand in her pants, and the way her hips moved in a rhythm against his fingers, working herself against his thumb and his probing fingers, stroking into her wet, hot entrance.

“Holy _Christ_ Jem, you feel like heaven,” he insisted, his voice all wonder.

Without realizing it, he had begun to piston his own hips against Jemma’s undulating ass as she worked herself quickly higher and higher towards orgasm. His fingers inside her, his mouth against her neck, the way his teeth nipped at her collar, his tongue soothing the small pain, it felt like a diviner, drawing all the sensations from her body to pool at her core, until suddenly, she was jerking hard against his hands.

Her breathing was strained and laboured as his thumb worked furiously, mashing the little button of her clit like it was a video game combination, as he whispered, heady with craving, “Are you going to come?” He nipped at her earlobe as she tossed her head back, and then begged, “Oh fuck, _come for me_. You’re _so_ close, come on, come on my hand, Jem, I want to see you come,”

With a shiver she bore down on his hands and gave a shuddery cry, her muscles tensing as she curled onto his fingers. She felt like a spring bursting into the Atlantic, feeling spilling out of her in a rush. When she came back to herself after her orgasm faded, in a spasm of shaking limbs, she went limp against his arms, his fingers still rubbing softly against her wet slit.

He pressed a moist kiss to her temple as her breathing levelled. “That was…”

“ _Incredible_ ,” she finished, peppering kisses to the underside of his jaw and slipping out of his arms.

“Where’you -?” Fitz began to ask as she twisted to face him, lowering to her knees on the cement. “... _Oh_.”

Jemma grinned naughtily up at him, biting her lip as she reached for his zip.

"Yeah, okay,"Fitz scooted rapidly forward and lifted his backside off the hood, watching, wide-eyed, mouth an excited ‘O’, as she curled her tiny hands into the waistband of his jeans and pants and pulled them forcefully down his thighs.

He hissed as the cotton of his boxers brushed the purpling head of his cock, the precum sticking in an embarrassingly pearly string as she sucked in a breath, her cheeks going pink. She moistened her lips quickly, taking in all of him, the ramrod straightness of the thick member, and put her palm against the base of it, stretching her fingers up towards the tip, as if measuring it.

“ _Oh Fuck_ , Jesus Christ on a _cracker_ , Jem -” He cursed, squeezing his eyes shut as her breath puffed out against the sensitive glans, his cock twitching again, impossibly, about to shoot with barely a touch. He let his head fall back between his shoulderblades with a whimper.

_Margaret Thatcher. Hobos. Starving children. Old men in the steam room. New Wave music. Dirty socks, Professor Lattimer’s hairy knuckles -_

When he thought he’d got control of himself, he peeked downwards, watching her hand close around the girth of him firmly, levering his length down towards her mouth. He gave a shuddery, whiny exhale, watching that rosebud mouth drop open as she gave a deliberate, experimental pump on his cock.

“ _Fuuuuuuck_ ,” he sobbed, taking in the picture along with the sensations - Fucking _Christ_ , he could still see the glisten on the inside of her thighs from when he’d gotten her off - could see her nipples poking out against her shirt - no, fuck,  _his_ shirt - she was wearing _his_ shirt when he’d fucking made her come, quivering in his lap, and here she was, kneeling between his thighs in his shirt, pumping at his cock, her perfect mouth falling open, ready to take him in, ready to suck him off, and _fuck_ -

Her tongue darted out swiftly, lapping at the tiny pearl of precum that had formed on the head - her tiny, pink little kitten tongue, and - _oh god - oh no_ -!

His cock jerked in her hand and he gave a strangled cry, his head falling back in defeat as he reddened like a tomato, arching his back and bucking his hips into her firm grip, a forceful jet of cum landing against the neckline of his t-shirt, spattering tiny droplets against the column of her throat.

With a surprised laugh, she said, “Pity.” Biting her lip when he managed to look down at her, finally, where she was petting his still hard length with a lazy finger, Jemma said, “I was quite looking forward to that.”

Fitz let the back of his head hit the hood of the car with a clang, and brought a hand over his face. _Well this was embarrassing._

"I think I'd best take another shower now...And borrow another shirt," Jemma giggled, biting her lip as she went to her feet, brushing off the dirt from her knees. She went to circle around the car, and ruffled Fitz's hair affectionately.

"Don't follow me into the shower, now," She said, lifting Fit'z limp wrist from his cheek so she could place a soft kiss upon the flushed skin.

 


	20. I Am Yours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jemma and Fitz travel back to her parents' home in affluent Kensington, taking in the sights and sounds and reveling in their new found relationship. 
> 
> That is, until the front door opens, and her parents come out.

* * *

 

Jemma took advantage of the lurch of the train to wind her arms tighter around Fitz’s waist, up under his patched leather jacket. His t-shirt was threadbare, with tiny little holes scattered about. When she ran her hand against his back, it was like playing peek-a-boo with little living dots of warm skin. She was wrapped around him tightly, snuggling her face into the dip of his collarbone. With a contented hum, she shoved one hand into the back pocket of his jeans to palm the pert curve of his bottom secretly, her hand hidden behind the length of his long plaid over-shirt.

Fitz jumped a little under her palm and made a tiny sound of surprise, which made her snicker, but he didn’t pull away. Instead he rubbed her arm, and held her just a wee bit tighter against him, while he turned away, a blush burning across his cheeks as he tried not to look at her and break into the nervous giggle that threatened to erupt.

After a moment’s composure, he said, “I still can’t believe it. Fine, fancy uptown girl like you, takin’ up with a lowlife punk like me.” His eyes were soft and adoring as he looked down at her, a shyly happy smile, one she’d never seen before, on his lips. It looked like it’d been made new, just for her, and no one else.

“What about you? What’s an interesting, brilliant, creative engineer moonlighting as a counter-culture rebel punk drummer, doing wasting his time with a completely nervy basket-case, like me? I never dreamed -”

Jemma tried to continue, but was surprised to find his warm, moist lips pressing against hers, curving into a delighted smile as he pulled back, eyes shooting quickly to the other passengers, a bit flustered by his sudden public display.  “Never though’ I’d be so lucky,” he murmured, darting forward again to place a quick peck on her temple.

Jemma giggled.

“I mean it - I though’ the universe had it out for me. Though’ I was cursed by the cosmos. First with my mum’s tax situation, and then with the College residence findin’ me squattin’, an’ then losing my spot on the scholarship list because of ‘dishonourable behaviour’ - basically homeless. Basically a drop-out. Nothin’ left but punk rock and my drumsticks. It all just seemed too contrived. An’ then you came along.”

Jemma’s thumb stroked along the shell of his ear, her devotion written plain in her smile and the gentleness of her fingertips against his scalp. Her eyes had a limpid quality, filled with an emotion he wasn’t sure he could put a name to. “It’ll all come around,” she murmured. “I’d like to help, if you’ll let me.”

“You bein’ here is help enough.”

She moved to her tiptoes, looking him carefully in the eye before she tilted her head and placed a tender, lingering kiss to his cheekbone.

She lowered herself back down, and they didn’t say anything for quite some time, enjoying the companionable silence, and the rock and sway of the train carriage, and the privilege to hold one another close and be affectionate.

Jemma ran her fingertips lightly against his scalp again, and then ran them along the tall liberty spikes of Fitz’s mohawk with a pleased, proud little smirk.

“Wha’?” Fitz questioned, raising an eyebrow at her strange expression.

“Nothing,” she tittered, quickly drawing back her hand as she flushed, looking down at their feet. She glanced back up through her eyelashes, and shrugged. “I just like it when you let me do your hair. That’s all.”

Fitz’s mouth pulled into a quick, flashing grin. “ _Yeah_?” he asked.

Jemma nodded. “Yeah,” she said, and bit her lip.

* * *

 

Jemma and Fitz walked hand in hand, stopping to turn and look at the families milling about the terrace steps of the Natural History Museum.

“I’m going to take you there on a date,” Fitz announced, wrapping an arm about Jemma’s waist and pulling her back into his embrace. She fit so nicely, her back to his front, swiping her thumb against his forearm affectionately, smiling as she pressed a fond little kiss to his jaw bone. “An’ I’ll go around talkin’ about the exhibits like a David Attenborough documentary. An’ if there’s a monkey exhibit, I’ll take you around twice,”

Jemma turned in his arms, laughing. “Monkeys? Really?”

“Yes,” Fitz declared, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. “With their tiny little hands and cute little faces! Monkeys are great! Little mischievous Capuchins, an’ what about adorable baby woolly monkeys? I love monkeys.”

He swayed them from side to side playfully. “Y’know, that might be something to take note of, y’know, for when you want to surprise me with the best date ever. You could take me to the monkeys at the zoo. Bring me all kinds of snacks. Let me pick the cassette to play on the walkman-”

Jemma giggled joyfully. “You know you’re describing a children’s playdate, yes?”

Fitz screwed up his mouth comically, as if thinking hard about it, and then shrugged, leaning over and rubbing his whiskered cheek against hers, just to hear her sputter out a laugh. “Yes. Yes I do. It’ll be great. Best date ever. I’ll even take you to a playground after, an’ push you on the swings.”

“As long as you let me catch frogs and snakes in the pond!” Jemma demanded, turning around, and flinging her arms around his neck when he tried to pull away. “No! You _have_ to promise! I love frogs! And snakes feel nice! All _scaley_!”

Fitz shook his head and scrunched up his face in disagreement. Jemma peppered his face with kisses.

“Say it! Say you’ll let me catch all the frogs I want!”

Fitz’s eyebrow arched, and then the corner of his mouth twisted into a tiny smirk, which broke his resolve. He stared down tenderly at her, and cupped her smiling face in his hands. “If it makes you happy, I’d even _help_. You great weirdo.”

He leaned down as she pressed onto her tiptoes, and there, at the gate of the Natural History Museum, with the sound of screaming children and the drone of cars in the background, their lips met. Not tentative or desperate, not hesitant or careful, but fondly, softly, contentedly. Fitz’s thumb stroked against her cheekbone, and her hand was hot at the back of his neck, and they moved against each other, knowing the way. It was a kiss that said ‘future’, a kiss that said ‘promise’. A kiss that painted pictures of a life years away, with prams and a little flat with a tiny balcony garden. A little life they were constructing in their minds, all on their own.

* * *

 

The wrought-iron gate coiled around the sprawling corner lot on Pembroke road. The white painted brick gleamed in the morning sunlight, looking freshly scrubbed against the perfectly manicured shrubberies of the front garden.

“Well this is nice,” Fitz sounded, waving his free hand at the elegant, grand structure Jemma called home. Up an elevated walk lined with opulent topiaries was a well-shaped, large black wooden door.

Jemma swung their joined hand as they stopped and she opened the gate. “It has been featured in _Town and Country Magazine_ twice. Mum is very proud of it. Father just likes the pomp and circumstance - Roxxon executive, kingly house in an optimal location -”

“I _mean’_ the door,” Fitz said with a sly grin and a wink.

“...Well I suppose it is quite a _good_ door,” Jemma agreed, confused, dragging him up the walk as his head spun, taking in the fashionable gardens, the stylish design.

“Quite. First floor. No dangerous trellis to climb, no treacherous grounds to sneak through to get to it. At the front of a house, even.”

Jemma turned and jumped up into his arms, swinging him around in an indulgent, doting hug. “You silly man.”

“Why, it’s almos’ like you’re not tryin’ to hide me!”

Jemma snorted out a tumble of giggles, and smacked an adoring kiss to his cheek. Fitz’s grin turned goofy and lopsided with the blatant show of affection. “You dear, dear man.”

Behind them, the door unlatched with a clank, and was thrown wide.

“ _Jemma Elizabeth Simmons_!” Her father’s voice boomed. Jemma scrambled out of Fitz’s embrace, and moved in front of him.

“Hello, Father.”

In a flurry of pink silk and a clatter of gold heels, Vera clasped her hand to her chest, and stuck one to Harcourt's shoulder, gripping tightly, as if it were the only thing keeping her standing.

“Mum!” Jemma cried, tears springing to her eyes at the relief and worry on her mother’s face.

“Oh, my dearest _darling_ Jemma! _Oh my little duck_!” Vera cried, pushing past Harcourt to clamour down the steps to her daughter, clutching her tightly to her chest as she sobbed.

“You _terrified_ your mother, Jemma Elizabeth. How could you _possibly_ get yourself caught up in a _riot_?” Harcourt demanded, plodding forward, leaving the entryway.

“You didn’t _call_ , and I thought I saw you on the _news_ , with a - a...one of those Russian cocktail bombs?” Vera’s brow was scrunched in a mixture of anxiety and confusion.

“What could _possibly_ drive you into the _streets_ with the _under-class_ , to attack the civilized policing of a gutter neighbourhood-!” Harcourt broke in.

“-Hey now,” Fitz began, the softness of his tone belying the rage that was coiling deep in his belly as he side-stepped Jemma’s embrace with her mother. “-it wasn’t her fault, she didn’t ask to get caught up in tha’ -”

“Oooooh, _I see_ ,” Harcourt squinted his eyes, giving the punk a once over, his face growing more and more flushed as realization dawned.

“I’ll thank you to stay out of this,” Harcourt’s face was apoplectic, red, and spittle flew from his mouth as he spoke. He gave Fitz a sneering once over, and drew himself up taller, “you _punk_. This is _family_ business - so stop sticking your nose where it _doesn’t belong_.”

He tugged Vera forcefully from her teary hug, pushing her behind him as he rounded in on Jemma. “Tell your brother’s guttersnipe friend to be off to that squalid -”

“ _Father_!” Jemma shouted.

“Young lady, while you live under this roof you follow _my_ commands, _you_ do as _I_ bid!” he seethed, looming intimidatingly over his small daughter, threat in his bearing.

Unthinking, Fitz grabbed Jemma’s arm and pulled her behind him. “Don’t talk to her like tha’,” he said quietly, bringing his eyes to meet the bigger man’s.

Harcourt barked out an ill-humoured scoff. “And who are _you_ to tell me how to speak to _my_ family?”

“Father -” Jemma began, her voice carefully even, forcefully stepping in front of Fitz with a pleading look at him.

“Father - this is Fitz.” Jemma smiled kindly, tearing her adoring eyes from the man whose hand she clasped, to look back at her father, her eyes and her tone begging him to understand.

“What kind of a name is _Fitz_?” Harcourt spat, recoiling. “And _why_ should _I_ care what this piece of _punk trash’s_ name is? Jemma?”

“Well..” she began, trying to find the right words. “We’re…”

“Oh _Jemma Elizabeth_.” Harcourt balked, bitter disappointment dripping from his words. “You’re so naive, child.”

He flung a hand in Fitz’s direction, his voice vociferous as he continued. “You think this state-supported, _bohemian_ pauper - this gutterpup - actually _cares_ for you?”

Jemma’s hands curled into fists, her arms straight and tight at her sides as her eyes filled with glassy, sharp tears. Her mouth was an incendiary line.

Harcourt grappled Jemma by the shoulders, moving his hands to cup her face and stroke her hair in a gesture of paternal care.  “You really are a babe in the woods, my dear, you’ve lived your life in labs and surrounded by science, you don’t _understand_ the _meanness_ of people! Of _men_! I’ve protected you all these years! But it’s put you in such danger, you’re _so gullible_. He’s the reason you endangered yourself, and your _reputation_! The _shame_ this family will face because of this scoundrel, all for _what_? For him to _suck you dry_ and leave you _penniless_?”

He waved at Fitz, who had taken a step closer to Jemma’s back, doing his best not to overstep, not to shout down the man who was deriding him, praying Jemma would say something in his defense, instead of just standing here, listening to her father’s lies.

“It’s not true, Jem,” he whispered, his shoulders buckling, and his gaze falling to the stones when she didn’t speak.

“Of course he _says_ that! He’s not after _you_ , sweetheart! You’re too clever by half! You’re out of his league - He’s _only_ interested in your _money_! In your _privilege_ and your _cash_ , to fund his - his...his _drinking_ and his _heroine addiction_ , and his _wayward lifestyle_!”

Like the lit fuse had finally reached it’s end, Jemma wrenched her head from his hands, and detonated. “It's not _like that_ between us!” she screamed. “You’re _willfully_ misunderstanding! It’s not like that!”

Like he’d been physically struck by her words, Fitz stumbled back, shocked. His hand pressed heavily into a manicured topiary to keep upright.

Had it all been a lie? Had she just been looking for a good time? Just a little bit of stuff from the down-and-out? _We’re all over the gaff, no real direction, it’s all been a mess between us - she’s just been arsing about with me. Playing at love. And why wouldn’t she? Her father was right - I’m nothing but a worthless piece of punk trash. No future, no home, no way someone like her would want me. Not really._

But it still stung.

“Not _like tha’_ , is it Jem?” Fitz managed, his voice garbled with tears and pain. “Not like tha’. _Okay_. I guess I was wrong abou’ us. Fine. I can’t. _I can’t even look at you_.”

He was barely watching where he was going, his feet stumbling along the cobblestone path towards the gate, the sound of blood rushing in his ears drowning out every other sound - even the honk of the taxi horn that sped towards him, bumping against his thigh, startlingly.

Tears flew out of his eyes as he threw his head to the side to glare at the driver, and slam a heavy fist into the hood. Fitz took off down Pembroke Road without a backwards glance, feeling cut up and bloodied and in pieces - dismembered from the inside.

He really was cursed.

He loved her. And he’d thought she’d maybe loved him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter! It was initially going to be longer, but this seemed like a natural break!
> 
> Big thanks as always to @notapepper, who is a joy and a delight, and who everyone should love, because she's awesome! Thanks for keeping my writing up to par, Pep! Couldn't do it without you!
> 
> As Samuel L Jackson would say, hang onto your butts folks! There is a whirlwind of plot stuff coming fast now, so don't be too down about this sad turn of events!


	21. Reality Whitewash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the explosive confrontation in the front garden, Jemma and her mother have a heart to heart. Meanwhile, Fitz runs into someone from his past, and, as he heads into the still quiet of Brixton, following the riot scene, things begin a turn for the ominous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! Chapter 21! I hope you all enjoy it. Big thanks, as always, to my glorious Beta, Notapepper, who saves me from comma splices and run-ons, THE TRUE SUPER VILLAINS, AMIRITE? And also to Pi, who may have headcanoned a whole new level of awesome in regards to a surprise in this chapter - a gold star and a plate of cookies and milk to whoever can guess just what it is!

* * *

 

“It’s been going on for _months_ , Vera! How can you _possibly_ -!”

“Now Harky, _try_ to understand! See it from _her_ point of view. You know Jemma, you know the type of girl she is - and you were very harsh and said some very mean and, in my opinion, very _untrue_ things. I know you were upset, but you need to control yourself, we were in the front garden, for goodness sake! Imagine the _neighbours_ -”

“ _I_ need to control _myself_?! _Me_? I was not the one _throwing bombs in Brixton_ , running around with some _punk_ , playing at love! I can’t say I know _anything_ about her anymore! My daughter isn’t my daughter anymore, Vera!”

Through her door, Jemma could hear her mother’s exasperated sigh, and the click of her heels as she turned.

“Suit yourself, dear. She’s _still_ our little girl, and _I_ for _one_ , will always support her, even if I have absolutely not a whit of understanding about her choices. I _trust_ that the girl I raised has become a smart, level-headed, rational, and daring woman, and that’s what I see in her, from tip to tail -”

“I _disagree_!”

“ _Then take a walk_! Because I _will_ speak to my daughter, and you are in _no place_ to be near anyone! Harky, your behaviour is downright _beastly_!” Vera commanded. 

Jemma stared at her door in surprise, blinking as new tears coursed down her face at this unlikely defense.

There were sounds of shuffling and grunting and finally, a gruff, “Apologies darling,” and a heavy slam of the door.

“Not enough.” Vera muttered, mounting the steps, tugging her flamingo pink wrap tighter about her arms. “Not by half.”

With a flourish, Vera threw open Jemma’s door.

“ _Ugh!_ ” She cried, brushing a hand through her short, blond coiffure, “It seems we’re predisposed to be attracted to over-dramatic men. I’m sure there’s a genetic component. You should make that your next project to study. I blame your Great Grandmama Eals. She must have started it all, marrying a musician.”

Vera waved a hand and then leaned down, arms reaching for where Jemma was curled in on herself, on the floor beside the bed. “He was the most famous classical violinist of the time, of course, but a musician is always a musician.”

Jemma shot a questioning eyebrow over at her mother, and wiped the trail of snot against the shoulder of her t-shirt.

“Oh yes, you may well be surprised. That David Bowie fellow’s not the only one to have slept with Mick Jagger,” Vera winked, tugging her daughter to standing.

“ _MOTHER!_ ”

Vera settled in on the duvet, arranging her silks, and then patted a spot beside her. “You forget I was a journalist for some time before I married your father.”

“You wrote a _gossip_ column.”

“And don’t you think there’s much to gossip about in the music scene?” Vera shimmied her shoulders and winked outrageously. “Of course, those were my wild younger years. I wrote with a pseudonym. Eventually though, the country club won out, and so did Grandmama Eals, and her helpful nudge towards your father. I’d never believe that corporate heads would be so much more moody and over-dramatic than musicians, but there you have it. Mick was _never_ so ridiculous.”

“Is father -?”

“He’s gone for a walk,” Vera said. “Give him some time. He’s never seen you with another man before.”

“He’s seen me with Sunil,” Jemma deadpanned, her ire rising.

“Yes well, we all know _now_ that Sunil is not to your taste, don’t we? He’s never seen you with a man of your choice before. One you _care_ about.”

Jemma shrugged, and turned away, brushing aside fresh tears. It’d all gone sideways. Again. She’d cocked it all up, again. She never said anything right. No matter how hard she tried, it never worked. “So much for that, now. I’ve gone and done it there too.”

Vera leaned back on her arms and took a deep, commiserating breath, looking hard at Jemma. “You’ve had...You’ve been with - on _dates_? Before, though? I remember an American named Tad...”

“ _Yes_!” Jemma cried, burying her face in her hands, “But it wasn’t the _same_ \- it wasn’t like this! That was purely - I wasn’t in - I wasn’t…” Jemma took a few quick, deep breaths, near hyperventilating, before she schooled her expression into something more robotic and less pained. “I was not as emotionally invested in them.”

“ _Oh, my duck_ ,” Vera cooed, seeing it suddenly, seeing all of it.

She shot forward and wrapped her arms gently around her only daughter, “Oh my darling girl. My little wild girl. You don’t have to pretend. You never needed to - not around _me_.”

Vera pressed a kiss to Jemma’s temple, and gave a wet little laugh. “It’s funny, I always thought you were more like your father than you were like me. It never occurred to me that you were so -” She took Jemma’s face by her chin, and tilted her red eyes towards her, “That you were quite so emotional and feeling as you are, burying it under all those rationalizations and logic and that science-talk of yours.”

She gathered Jemma into a tight hug, as her daughter nodded rapidly, sobbing with heaving breaths. “All that passion for science, you must have funnelled it all there -”

“Father doesn’t like -” Jemma cut herself off, pressing her lips together so she didn’t sob the rest. After a moment, she continued, “-emotions are messy and they lead to bad decisions. He always said he couldn’t take me seriously if I -” Jemma made a motion with her hands and broke into wet, wheezing tears.

Vera shook her head in the negative. “That’s simply because he’s never been able to understand his own. He can’t handle them in others. I swear he only just puts up with them from me because I shout him down or go to the club or take a Xanax instead. I’m _so_ sorry, I’m _so sorry_ my duck.” Vera apologized, her throat constricting and squeezing out the words, “I’m so sorry I never _knew_ \- never _saw_. I’m a terrible mother.”

“ _No_! No you’re not,” Jemma declared. “You’re a wonderful mother and I’d never ask for anyone else, ever, ever, _ever!_ ”

The two women held each other tightly, and cried until their sobs turned to hiccups, until their hiccups turned to stuttered breaths, and their stuttered breaths turned into embarassed, relieved little laughs.

“We are a picture, aren’t we, darling?” Vera joked, using her flamingo wrap to dab at Jemma’s eyes.

“Your mascara’s all run,” Jemma said sadly, her eyebrows quirking up humourously.

With a little flourish, Vera wiped at them with her wrap, and said, “Voila! Now - What about your exotic young man? Hmm? What’s the plan there?”

Jemma brought a hand to her face just as it began to crumple again. Vera slapped it away. “ _Pish tosh_! Enough of hiding your feelings, I say! It’s not all lost, hope until the end, some Winston Churchill quote and carrying on and all that! There _must_ be something you can do - surely you can explain.”

“I do know the number of the garage,” Jemma said.

“Good! Then call him! Tell him you love him, explain that you put your foot in it, and it was all quite a stressful situation, and he misunderstood, but that you love him dearly, and that while your father might be acting a bit of a ponce, your mother is an _absolute delight_ who supports her daughter following her heart, to whatever man or science it leads you to!”

Jemma was nodding rapidly, her mouth screwed up in determination. “Just...tell him I love him.”

Vera smiled, “Well you do, don’t you? He is the... _lab partner_ you were telling me about, isn’t he? The one that complements you in every way? Who makes you feel happy enough to conquer the world?”

“Well...yes, that is him…”

“And you love him, don’t you?”

“I...I don’t _know_. I’ve never been in love before - I have no data set to compare to-”

“Forget the science for a moment. Forget your _brain_. Listen to your heart.”

Jemma thought about it. The thing she felt for Fitz - the enormity of it - she’d been feeling it for a long time. That desire for his good opinion, the yearning for him near, like an ache when he was gone, the way she relaxed around him, in his embrace - they never ran out of things to talk about, and she wanted to know everything about him, to champion his every effort, to never, ever be parted from him. Whatever it took - she’d disobeyed her father, she’d yelled at him, she’d broken rules, she’d -

She’d given him her heart months and months ago, maybe that first meeting, when he stared up at her, eyes owl-wide, so handsome and pasty in the darkness, inked and rebellious, but so sleepy and childlike, it was wholly incongruous. She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him. And he was so brilliant, and so quiet…

“I _do_. I do love him.”

Vera placed the phone in Jemma’s lap, and then stood, leaning down to kiss her on the forehead. “Good luck, Jemma darling.”

* * *

 

Fitz slumped forward, his shoulders rounded as he moved toward to the gap, picking his way toward the tube carefully. Someone jostled him rudely from behind.

“Watch it!” He seethed, pivoting. His fuse was so short, and his frustration needed an outlet. Unfortunately for the pushy passenger heading for the train, they were it.

“ _Fitz_?”

“ _Ward_?” Fitz took a few cautious steps backwards, his eyebrows creasing in suspicion, “What’re you doing here? I though' you went back to the States.”

Ward rushed forward and swept Fitz into a brief, manly hug, slapping him hard on the back as he let go, giving a surprised laugh. The tall, dark haired man shook his head as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. “I’d have thought you’d have been back in Scotland by now! This is _crazy_! Ah, man, it’s so good to see you!”

FItz backed up before Ward could surprise him with another strange attack of affection. “You know what? _Not today_. Today’s been enough. I don’t need you too.” Quickly, he turned, climbing into the train car.

“Wait! _What_?” Ward cried, pushing past other passengers to get on the train before the doors closed. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“It means _you’re the utter wankbasket that ruined my life!_ ” Fitz shouted, his face growing red. “I can’t.” He shook his head in disbelief and squeezed past the passengers behind him, trying to move as far away from Ward as possible.

“What? _How?_ We were friends! We were roommates! Come on man, you helped me pass _Stats_! Come on, man, lighten up! We’re cool!”

“ _No_!” Fitz shouted, throwing his hands up and pivoting, “We’re not _‘cool’_! We’re the _opposite_ of cool! We _were_ friends, we were like _brothers_ , and then you _played_ me! You got me _busted_ , you _asshole!_ ”

“What, that call to the RA? How was that wrong? I was just following the rules,”

“You _KNEW_ I was broke! _YOU KNEW I GAVE THA' MONEY TO MY MUM_! You tried to _bribe me_ into giving you my schematics and blueprints for another month to kip free! That’s wrong!”

Ward threw up his hands in exasperation. “I don’t where you get these ideas. I just… I wanted to _look_ at them,”

Fitz made a move for the far door, pushing through the cluster of people as the train stopped. “You’re a psychopath, Ward. _A bloody psychopath_!” He elbowed his way out of the crowd and other the train platform, his head down and his motions fast, trying to put as much distance between himself and Ward as possible.

He didn’t notice, throughout his slow trek back to Brixton, the tall, dark-haired man that shadowed him, tailing a few hundred feet behind, nonchalantly, just out of sight whenever he turned, the skin on the back of his neck prickling with suspicion. Fitz brushed it off as a residual effect of the strangeness of the day.

The riots had left an odd hush over the empty streets, shop windows boarded over with plywood, cars knocked over and burnt out. He felt a shiver go through him, wondering how things could have peaked to such a state, boiled over into mindless rage, the need to fight back and do something so strong that it all poured, like poison into the streets, and then, just as quickly as it had began, it had ebbed, the quiet its own sort of furor, its own sort of violence, stark and bare and naked, exposed.

It didn’t help his mood any, so he pulled his leather jacket tighter, and trudged on a little faster, jogging into the garage, locking the door behind him.

A street down, Ward ducked into a payphone booth, sticking some change into the slot. “John Garrett - wait, no, put me through to Harcourt Simmons, please.”

Ward stared, steely-eyed, toward the nondescript garage. “Hello sir, this is Grant Ward - from the American office. What would you say if I told you that I could offer you some of those genius blueprints and schematics I’d mentioned?”

Ward smiled at the reply, nodding, and then quickly, frowned. “No, he’s still unwilling. But there’s a way to acquire them without him.”

Ward chuckled, “No, it’s not strictly above board, but…”

Ward grinned. “I figured you might have some fixers up your sleeve. Plus - I happen to know that you’re getting some heat from the board. They want innovation. I can provide you that. And you scientists should be able to reverse engineer whatever I bring in.”

Ward nodded. “Discretion is my middle name sir. I do of course, expect to be compensated for my efforts.”

Ward smiled like a cat that had got the canary. “Perfect.”

* * *

 

Fitz slammed the door to the office behind him, throwing his coat onto the sofa. “ _BLOODY_ SHUT UP!” He screeched at the phone, which had been ringing since he got in. “We’re closed, an’ it’s not _bloody likely_ the police will be letting any through traffic into the area for _at least_ another day, _y’moron_!”

After a moment, the phone stopped ringing, and Fitz threw himself onto the cushions, curling tight, and trying to neither scream, nor cry. He sighed heavily, letting his gaze fall on all the new schematics he’d drawn up for the dendrotoxin rifle - he’d named it the Night-Night Gun - should have known when she’d been so disapproving of the name - should have known it was a sign.

He shifted to sitting, looking at all the hours and months of labour and ingenuity plastered to the walls here, never seeing the light of day, because he’d been nothing more than a rich girl’s plaything. His eyes lit on the blinking light of the answer phone, and he thought, briefly, that if he couldn’t scream, and he couldn’t cry, then he might as well work, and take his mind off it.

With a deep, beleaguered sigh, he pressed the button for the first message.

“This - um,” The messaged crackled to life, Jemma’s voice distinct. “This message is for Fitz. Um so...Fitz. I just I wanted to apologize for what happened earlier, you see it was such a silly mistake, I meant it as in that it wasn’t about money, and I knew that, wasn’t about money for you, I mean - Nor me, obviously, but that our, um... _relationship_ , if you’d like - I mean, I assume there is one? If you want one? _Still_? I mean that...um, _that_ \- that it wasn’t like that. It wasn’t about money. It was about...well, more than that I guess - oh blast, the machi-” The message beeped, and cut off.

Fitz stared numbly at the buttons before striking forward in a discombobulated movement, his fingers thick and ungainly as he pressed for the next message.

“Hello, er, this is Jemma Simmons again, calling for Leopold Fitz? I mean - Just Fitz? Oh my, this is a rocky start, isn’t it?” She tittered nervously into the phone, “I suppose I’ll just, um, carry on...then. What I meant to say, before the bloody machine cut out, was that, you’re more than _any of it_ , to me, really. And I know it might be a bit _fast_ to say it, and I know I sound like a _crazy person_ , because we’ve only been, sort of, er, together...ish, for a day, but I...um...I guess…” She took a deep, shuddery breath. “I lo-”

The machine beeped loud and long and Fitz cursed with fervor, smashing down on the button again.

“ _ILOVEYOU!_ ” Jemma’s voice cried, all in a rush, “...I just...wanted to get that out before your bloody machine cut out. _So_...there it is, I suppose. I love you. And I’m _so_ sorry I - I just sort of froze. I freeze...sometimes. when I’m faced with him. My father. I don’t know why. It’s _silly_ , and it’s _stupid_ , and I should have stood up for you, I should have shouted him down quicker, you should have _never questi_ -”

“GODDAMN BLOODY MACHINE!” Fitz cried, his finger rapidly pressing the button, and accidentally skipping the next three messages.

“Right.” Fitz nodded to himself, pacing, as Jemma begged and pleaded in the background, her voice wet with tears. Because of him. “She loves you.” He nodded again. “Right.”

“She’s cryin’ over the answer-phone ‘cause she thinks you’re bloody angered over a miscommunication, ‘cause she thinks she didn’t do enough or wasn’t enough for you, you blasted fool.” Fitz grabbed his coat, quickly checked the inside pocket, making sure everything was in order, and nodded to himself one more time, decidedly. “Right.”

He took fast steps out the garage, barely pausing to lock the door, as he jogged towards the station.

He was going to fix this.

No, they were going to fix this. Together.


	22. Linoleum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Fitz realizes his mistake, he tries to make his way to Jemma and apologize. Meanwhile, Jemma waits by the phone, certain she's said too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, I am the WORST at updating. But as @notapepper and @memorizingthedigitsofpi keep telling me, IRLs before URLs - and lemme tell you IRLs have been NONSTOP.
> 
> GUYS.
> 
> GUUUUUYYYYYSSSS.
> 
> I JUST BOUGHT MY FIRST APARTMENT.
> 
> SO in celebration, have a chapter!
> 
> *throws glitter*

* * *

 

 

Jemma carefully set the phone receiver into the cradle. Again.

For the seventeenth time.

Well, technically, for the thirty-seventh time. She had actively picked up the phone and placed it back on the cradle a total of thirty-seven times. The first seven were straight to Mack’s shop, just ringing into the void. She’d hung up each time the answer-phone clicked on.

Calls eight to twenty went past that, tipping dreadfully into anxious, apologetic tangents about the situation, and from thence to their relationship, and then, horribly, with as much tact as a freight train, into the nature of her feelings for Fitz.

Trudi, who had been hovering outside the bedroom with the vacuum, had, gratefully, stepped in, taking the phone and hanging up after Jemma had begun describing the small cottage she’d seen on vacation in Scotland as a child, and how that cottage had been on her mind as of late, and how she’d imagined them in it, together.

The last seventeen had begun about a half hour after that, when she heard no response. They had been sequenced five minutes apart, an optimal spacing, she had thought.

Jemma sat heavily upon her canopied bed, blinking.

It had been hours. Surely by now, if he had felt anything more for her, if he had been inclined to give her a second chance, he would have picked up the phone by now.

Maybe he had listened to her messages.

Jemma brought her hands to the sides of her neck and kneaded anxiously, thinking back over the wording of each message. She cringed, and bit her lip.

“Well, there’s nothing more to be done about it, I suppose,” She breathed out, her voice a tremulous whisper. It didn’t matter. Her mind replayed each message, each silly admission, each ridiculously claimed possibility of their future, of what could have been between them.

“ _Uuuuuugh_ ,” Jemma fell face first into her pillows, her cheeks flaming in embarrassment. Her eyes pricked with tears as she buried her face deeper into the soft pile, frustration burning up inside her. Why on Earth did she have to be _so_ honest? And _honestly_ so sappy and deranged? Who says that they want to grow old with someone in a tiny Scottish cabin after a day of not-even-exactly dating? That they never want to be without someone?

“I’m going to throw up,” she mumbled into the down cushions, clutching at her queasy stomach, silently begging that the embarrassment and frustration would live a little longer, before she was submerged beneath the inevitable wash of sadness.

When that happened, she’d finally have to admit that it was over. That she had bared her soul, as honestly as she could, to an answer phone, that it could live forever for him and Mack and whoever else to laugh at and make fun of for the rest of eternity, and that it was just too much - she was just too much. Such a mess. So much to handle. Too much. As usual.

It was her fault, because she had not done enough, she had broken it, like she broke everything, and that regardless of her determination, love, from someone _she_ loved, would never be hers. And it was her fault. A bull in a china shop, she’d broken that fragile thing.

A vague sense of something knocking filtered through the fog of pillows around her. “ _Please go away_ ,” she croaked, her tiny voice dangerously close to breaking as she curled tighter in on herself, pressing her face into a cushion tightly as a sob overtook her.

The walls of Jemma’s heart had been stretched and filled with so much love over the past two days that she had felt she would burst with it, only to have had it petrify in fear of losing all that she had gained. It had become so brittle, with so many tiny fractures running through it, when her mother had finally spoken to her, finally understood. With the silence, those walls were crumbling - unable to hold back the sheer force of her feelings - the truth of them, the way she loved him, the way she had hurt him, and how he could no longer care for her at all. She was drowning under the weight of it.

For a few minutes, all she could hear was her own sobs and sniffles, the rustling of the bed around her as her body shuddered with the force of her cries, and the sound of her heart pounding, brokenly, in her chest.

That was why she hadn’t realized that the vague knocking was not coming from the door to her bedroom, but from her trellis window.

Fitz watched her convulse reflexively against the comforter. He dug desperately and haphazardly with his pocket knife at the window latch. Biting his lip and scrunching his brows, he angled the blade slightly right, and gave a sharp flick. He cried out in triumph as the catch flipped and the casement tilted inwards, toppling him, in his excitement, with it.

He landed hard on his back, tumbling end-over-trainers, somehow, to land on his feet, in the world’s most awkward estimation of a somersault. Stumbling, a little like a newborn calf, he stood, smoothing down his t-shirt.

Jemma had frozen, mascara tracks trailing down her cheeks, blinking. Her mouth gawped like a fish, her brain trying to catch up to the situation at hand, taking in Fitz’s ruined liberty spike mohawk, flopped and crushed and flaking glue against his shoulders, the red tips of his ears, the way he cleared his throat and held his hands out, as if preparing for a speech.

“Hi,” he said.

He shot her a small, sheepish smile.

Jemma hastily pushed to standing and dragged her palms against her cheeks, brushing away the stains of her emotions. “...Hi,” she croaked.

She feigned a cough to clear her thick throat, and shuffled forward quickly. “I’m so sorr-”

He jumped closer, their words slip-sliding against each other as he reached out to wrap his hands around her elbows, “-to apologize -”

They stepped forward at the same time, Jemma’s sock feet stepping on the toes of Fitz’s chucks.

Knees collided against shin bones. Arms snaked through openings. Curves pressed against planes, and words fell away as their eyes closed, and their lips met.

He tugged her tightly up against his chest, his hand stroking wide and hot along the seam of her waist, molding her to him as he leaned forward, pressing into the kiss with a tender urgency. When they broke apart in small, slow increments, His eyes squeezed tightly shut, like if he tried hard enough, he could make time stretch and slow, elasticate it, so it lasted just that much longer. His mouth tugged tinily against her bottom lip, like he could take it with him. Jemma’s stomach dipped - that rollercoaster feeling, that falling feeling, shivering up inside her as she squeezed tight into the press of his arms.

“I love you, too,” Fitz murmured, flicking his eyes open.

Jemma sucked in a shallow breath, her eyes widening as she pulled back, staring disbelievingly into the shocking blue eyes that stared back at her. His mouth pulled into a frown, and his eyes dropped back to the floor. “I just - I needed you to know tha’. To say it to you. I know tha’ right now isn’t exactly ideal, and tha’ you’re upset with me, and you have every right to be, and I know that it’s no way to fix a problem, ‘specially after tha’ stupid display, but I just - I’m so sorry, I was too stupid to believe-”

Jemma moved her hand over his chest, grabbing a handful of his t-shirt and balling her fist, “Fitz - don’t,”

“It’s true though, bloody fool me, you’re the most determined, stubborn, decided person I know -”

“You’re _not_ a fool, stop it-”

“But I _am_ \- Couldn’t believe my luck in the first place -”

Jemma smacked her fist into his chest, her lips mashing into a determined line, “It’s not luck,”

“Probability then-”

“It’s not probability either - it’s certainty. You’re so brilliant.” She placed her free hand against his stubbled cheek, stroking his jaw, and smiled a small, wry smile. “And so pasty.” Her eyes softened, her smile growing impossibly fond, and her cheeks flush. “So handsome. So very handsome...and kind.”

Jemma shifted to her tiptoes and pressed a careful kiss to the corner of his mouth, her fingers curling against the nape of his neck, through the shorn hair. “How could I not fall for you?”

“If anyone should apologize, it should be me...It needs to be me,” she declared, stepping back and pressing a hasty palm against her eye, brushing away a stray tear. Jemma turned her back as she frowned, trying to collect herself. “I gave you reason to - to doubt the way I felt about you -”

“-Jemma,” Fitz murmured, his voice a low susurrus against her ear as he came up behind her, his arms meeting hers as she wrung her hands against her chest. He stilled them in his, and nuzzled the back of her head, lovingly.

“-I can be...closed off, I know. I’m not good at - at saying things -”

“Jemma, this wasn’t you, I swear, sweetheart,” Fitz pleaded. He dropped a kiss against her temple. “I promise you, this wasn’t about you. It was _me_ . It was _my_ fault. _My_ issues, comin’ out to play at the most inopportune time -”

“-Do they ever come out any other time?” She chuckled in wry camaraderie. “I know what that’s like.”

“I always think I’m not good enough. That somethin’s always going to come and take away anythin’ I care really hard about. So aside from my mum, I just...don’t hold on. Don’t put much stock in it...I don’t…” He searched for the word, his brows scrunching as Jemma turned in his arms.

“-Fight for it,” she supplied.

“I just always assume it wasn’t meant for me. To have the things I want. The things I love.” Fitz gulped, and peered at her face through his lashes, watching the way her bottom lip glistened in the light after her tongue flicked out to moisten it. “The...people. The people I love.”

“Funny, isn’t it?” Her mouth formed the words with a tiny pull at the corner, wistfully. “You always think you’re not enough. I always think I’m too much.”

Fitz’s face inched closer and closer, his eyes intent on the pucker of her lip. “We’re a matched set, at least.”

Their mouths met gently, sliding softly over each other, like a salve to soothe the pain. And there was something in it, in the way their fingers intertwined against their pressed-up thighs, the way they leaned their weight upon each other, balanced and without thought, something that flowed into the cracks, shoring them up, just a little bit. It was something like trust, something like faith, something missing slotting just a little more into place.

Jemma shifted against him, her fingers slipping from his grip to grasp at his back for support, pressing up on her tiptoes to deepen the kiss. Her tongue flicked against his bottom lip just as her fingertips fluttered against the skin of his back, right at the waist of his jeans. Fitz shuddered against her, his stomach swooping as he felt himself begin to stiffen. His fingers dove into her hair, tilting her head back and surging down to capture her mouth, his tongue wanting and needy and sliding along her own.

One arm wound against her waist, drawing her up as he pressed his leg firmly between hers, the heat of her concentrated like a brand against his thigh. Jemma keened a high, hushed gasp, and suddenly, her palms were splayed flat against the skin under his shirt, forcefully bunching it up.

Taking the wordless hint, Fitz reached behind him, ripping the layers from his back in one movement before pressing back to her, seeking her lips like a missile seeks a target. Together, uncoordinated, they shuffled to the bed, tossing clothes haphazardly until they fell in a sprawl against the comforter.

Fitz dragged his palm roughly and reverently against the hollow of her belly, his fingers tingling at her ribs until his hand cupped her breast.

Jemma was panting, sucking in breath after breath, desperate to make him just as breathless, hating to be outdone. Without much thought (the capability fair leaving her, with the way he kissed messily along her collarbone, and worried at her nipple with his fingers), she flicked her tongue to the shell of his ear. His breath hitched in his throat as he gave a full body shiver, freezing in place above her.

Grinning, Jemma leaned down, lapping at his earlobe before sucking it into her mouth, earning a beggared whine in response.

“ _Fuuuuuuck,_ Jem!” Fitz cried against her neck.

Pressing the advantage, she pulled at the waistband of his boxers, slowly exposing the curve of his pasty, perfect arse. She craned her head, watching and biting her lip as her fingernails dug in, grabbing a handful, watching the way they scored across the pale flesh.

“Has he called back?” a clatter of heels sounded from the hallway, just as Fitz ground his swollen cock against the cotton of Jemma’s panties.

Breaking from each other’s lips, they watched as the door knob slowly began to turn. With a hasty push, Jemma shoved Fitz off the bed, rolling him to the far side, before sprinting toward their discarded clothes and grabbing the first thing she could find. She pulled it over her hair, hauling the throw from the end of her bed and flinging it in a desperate attempt to cover the scattered detritus of their apologetic snog-fest. With one final glance to make sure Fitz was hidden from view, she sprang to the door.

“What was that sound? Are you alright, my duck?” Vera inquired, tossing her flamingo wrap about her shoulders.

“Just, um, the uh, the phone. I fell asleep,” Jemma explained, pulling at the short hem of the t-shirt she’d managed to pull on. Fitz’s shirt. “I had it on the bed... With me, uh...Just, um, in case?”

Vera nodded with a sigh. “Hasn’t called back?”

“Not, um, yet, no.” Jemma answered, glad it was at least not an outright lie. “But I do have high hopes,” She added, smiling brightly, as though it were a promising experiment, and not the high probability of devastating heartbreak it had been, all of ten minutes ago.

This earned her a raised eyebrow from Vera, who swept her gaze over her daughter’s unkempt hair and tumbled appearance. “That’s a different _ensemble_ ,” Vera hinted, archly.

“It’s...his. I um, I stole it.” Jemma declared. “I know it’s a crime and, well, highly irregular - irrational even!” She gave a trill, nervy laugh, and shifted her weight onto the outside of her ankles. “But um, I just, I missed him, and-” She tried to remember how the harlequins Skye had lent her had put it.

She paraphrased, “I just wanted to feel close to him.” She brought her hand up over-dramatically to her brow.

Fitz groaned silently against the carpeting, his dick sandwiched stickily between his thigh and the floor. If her mum hadn’t guessed yet that she had a man hidden under her bed, she was certainly going to be suspecting it now.

Vera couldn’t help the sly, knowing grin that rolled up the corners of her mirthful mouth. “Well, whatever the case, your father is in the drive, and we’ll be in full swing for the dinner party tonight - we postponed it with all that vile riot business. You’d best get yourself... _tidied_.”

Vera gave her daughter a quick peck, grabbing the doorknob in her manicured hand as she turned to go, adding,“I suggest Fitz exits the way he came.”

She gave her daughter a cheeky wink, and sportingly, said, “Goodbye, Fitz!”

Squeezing his eyes shut, face smushed against the carpet in abject embarrassment, Fitz flung an arm out from the end of the bed in a sheepish wave. “ _Nice to see you again_.” He mumbled into the floor.

Vera tossed her head back, clutching at her pearls as gales of bright, jovial, throaty laughter split the air. She shut the door with a click, her laughter trailed behind her, giggles fading with the click-clack of her heels against the floor.

 


	23. Tell Me I'm the Only One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Fitz and Jemma separate for the evening, Fitz back to the garage, and Jemma to the Roxxon dinner party, unsetting things begin to arise, which could compromise their future endeavours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at me, getting another chapter out so quickly! WHAT IS HAPPENING?! HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE?!
> 
> Anyways! Big thanks to Pepper, my awesome beta, who took time out of her very busy IRL to give this a good once-over! I hope you like it!

* * *

 

 

Fitz jogged through the back alley, his frenetic fingers tapping out the drumline to Wreckless Eric’s _Whole Wide World._ His mouth kept splitting into stretches of ecstatic, dopey grins, and he knew he was drawing strange looks from Jemma’s well-dressed neighbours as he loped down the sidewalk.

Ducking his head to hide his mad, giddy grin, he shoved his restless hands into his pockets. It only lasted a few minutes, however, until he cut into an alley at a run, tearing his hands from his pockets and slamming them against the metal bin lids in tune - spinning and beaming and dancing terribly - His heart had been hooked up to an amp and cranked up to eleven, and there was no way he could turn down the feedback noise that boomed out of him.

Unable to stop himself, he sputtered a laugh and began to sing, quietly and out of breath, in time to his trashcan drum solo, “When I was a young boy, my mama said to me, there’s only one girl in the world for you, and she probably lives in Tahiti!”

He spun, giving into the ridiculousness and anonymity of his actions, and mimed throwing his sticks into the crowd, imagining the cheers, imagining kissing Jemma again- the feel of her body under his hands, and felt the red blush seep under his skin, turning his face hot and making him feel unaccountably silly. With a giggle, he burst down the alley at a dash, heading towards the Tube.

* * *

 

The cassette was snug in her little boombox as Jemma tossed her towel onto the straight-backed chair by her vanity. She pressed the play button and heard the static white noise of the tape-deck pick up the song. It was sort of a nostalgic throwback tune, it made her heart pulse warmly in her chest, and her hips sway back and forth as she tugged her satin-y pants up over her thighs, setting them snugly over her hips with a snap.

“- tell me I’m the only one-” She sang along, skipping over to her dresser, pulling out a matching bra. She shimmied her shoulders as she reached behind her and fastened the clasp “I don’t wanna have a contract on your life, I just wanna be someone-” She reached into the bra-cups, leaning over as she readjusted, “I just wanna find a warm place in your heart, then I’ll truly-” She hopped over to her closet and flung the doors wide, her voice rising in volume, “-Be someone!”

She ran her fingertips along all of the fancy dresses she didn’t care about, and twirled, closing her eyes as she smiled and blindly reached for her hairbrush before the bridge started again. She cranked the volume dial up and threw herself onto the bed, scrambling to her feet to jump in time with the beat -” TELL ME I’M THE ONLY ONE! OH, TELL ME I’M THE ONLY ONE! TELL ME I’M THE ONLY ONE!” She shouted into her make-shift mic, spitting a little at the end from the discarded hair caught in the bristles.

“What on earth is that infernal racket?!” Her father’s voice was suddenly at the door, shoving at it hard and throwing it open.

Jemma steadied herself from her jumping, hands thrust outwards, and gulped. The hairbrush slipped from her hands, bounced a little on the comforter, rolled off the mattress, and landed at Harcourt V. Simmons feet.

He stared at it in indignation, his face growing red. He cast his eyes back to his awkwardly frozen daughter. “Get dressed this instant, and turn off that awful noise, or so help me! You’ve been testing my patience, Jemma,” he warned, pivoting and pulling the door closed with a slam.

Jemma fumed, dropping her hands and clenching her fists against her thighs.

* * *

 

Fitz continued his half-skip shuffle down the sidestreets and alleys of Brixton, heading towards the padlocked backdoor with a lopsided smile and pink cheeks. He drummed his palms loudly against the nearby dumpster, and slid around a corner.

He shook his shoulders and mumbled song lyrics as he neared his destination, flicking his eyes closed, he snapped his fingers and slid into a twirl, Marvin Gaye’s _Sexual Healing_ playing through his mind. He knew this alley like the back of his hand. He could navigate it blindfolded - so he let the image of Jemma spread out beneath him reel away, imagining the noises she made as his hand trailed up her body, the tiny squeal when he finally reached her breast - how pliantly it had filled his palm, the flush of her lips, the way her hair had spread out around her face like a halo. Jesus, she was his. _His_.

When he was sure he was at the right door, he opened his eyes, and frowned.

That couldn’t be right.

It didn’t make sense.

It had to be the wrong door. His eyes had been closed.

Fitz scratched at his jaw and shot a glance down the left side of the alley, craning his head, and then the right.

It was the garage alright.

But why was the lock ajar?

* * *

 

“Mum!” Jemma cried, her hands holding together the intricate pile of curls on top of her head, a few strands artfully draped against the freckled column of her neck. “I ran out of pins!”

She shuffled awkwardly down the hall towards her mother’s bedroom, and the ensuite there, shouting loudly, “I’m going to borrow some of yours! I’ll put them back, I promise!”

Her beaded cream silk dress slid down her shoulders as she worked, sticking a handful of pins into her mouth and delicately twisting them, one by one, to capture the meticulously curled ringlets. The smooth fabric kept sliding as she worked, exposing her shoulder and draping around her elbow in a wrinkle of baby-pink and silver sequined embroidery.

Once her hair was pinned into a charming disarray, she slapped the shoulder of her scalloped sleeve back roughly where it was supposed to be and went to search out her mother to fasten the tricky clasp at the back of her neck.

Hearing footsteps on the far landing, Jemma slipped out of her parents’ bedroom, hoping to corner her mother before she flitted back down to the kitchen to harangue the caterer.

She stopped short however, upon noticing that it was not her mother at all. It was her father, hastily motioning for that Ward fellow - the one from the American office, to hand over a large silver briefcase, and a handful of hastily rolled papers.

Jemma squinted, and took another step forward, still unnoticed by them. There was something familiar about the rolls of papers. Something she couldn’t quite place. The colour? _No...Or Maybe_? Was it the little corner logo that sparked a memory? She couldn’t make it out from the distance, but it looked like it had a Green M on the corner -?

Harcourt took the material and the briefcase with a skittish tug, digging through his breast-pocket with his free hand. His fingers pinched the edge of a slim, folded piece of paper, and he slapped it into Grant Ward’s palm. “I trust we shall speak no more of this, Mr. Ward.”

The tall man unfolded the rectangular piece of paper, the corner of his mouth quirking - the only discernible sign of happiness. “Not of this, no. But I do trust that we’ll speak in greater detail about that promotion you mentioned.” Tucking the paper away, he quirked a challenging eyebrow.

Harcourt barked out a surprised and impressed laugh. “I like your style, Mr. Ward. Perhaps we will.”

He gave the younger man a single, firm shake of his hand, and suspiciously glanced over his shoulder. Jemma sunk back behind a grecian column just as his eyes drifted down the corridor in her direction.

Harcourt’s brows fell, shadowing his eyes as he intoned, all seriousness, “This never happened,” and escaped into his study, the door closing with the snick of the lock.

Footsteps sounded, causing Jemma to peek out from her hiding place and check if the coast was clear.

“Oh! Miss Simmons! Where did you come from?  I didn’t realize you were home! How’s Sunil these days?” Ward smiled a greasy smile and jogged a bit closer.

He must not have seen her approach. She swallowed her sigh of relief and instead, attempted to appear welcoming.

“Grant,” She simpered, her hand going to her embroidered shoulder, holding up the fabric, “What are you doing here so early?”

“Well, you know your mom - best caterers in London! I had to get here early just so I could get a taste of the good stuff,” He chuckled amicably, “Plus, some business talk with your father. Say -” He motioned to her sleeve, “Why don’t you let me help you with that?”

Without waiting for her acquiescence, he took her by the shoulders and spun her around, stepping very closely into her personal space. Something about him made her skin crawl. She went to take a step forward, reaching behind to shoo him away, but he immediately grabbed hold of her arm, forcefully holding her in place. “Hold still,” he commanded.

She could feel the warmth of his breath and smell the sour coffee smell on his tongue and shuddered, edging away as his fingers grasped the two ends of the clasps.

The fabric was tight at her neck, and it felt like a noose - the underlying feeling of anxiety that had thrummed through her as she eavesdropped thumping into huge, echoing pulses - like he could strangle her. He was so much bigger than her, so much _stronger_ , he could snap her like a twig, if he chose -

“There, all done,” he said, giving her shoulder a squeeze.

She skittered out of his hold and started for the stairs, turning to toss a stuttered thanks as she descended.

* * *

 

It couldn’t be.

Fitz floundered in the doorway, moving one way and then the other discombobulatingly. He made short, aborted movements toward every upturned tool-caddy, every spilled chemical, smashed headlight, thrown-over parts-bin - the smashed glass of the office windows, the torn edges of pinned up blueprints and sketches, hastily done on Mack’s company letterhead -

_Wait._

His blueprints. His sketches and designs.

His stomach fell through the floor and his feet moved forward, one at a time, each forbidding step reverberating heavily through the concrete. He pulled the cuff of his shirtsleeve over his hand, brushing the glass from the office door-handle, and stepped through.

Every single scrap, scribbler, scrawled tissue, and rolled up schematic was gone.

Fitz didn’t even realize he’d begun to cry until the tears rolled off  his chin, splattering his hand.

“Everythin’s gone,” he breathed, shakily, turning in a despairing circle. He didn’t bother wiping his face as the tears streamed down. “ _Everythin’_ .” His life’s work. All his dreams. _Gone_.

Dumbstruck, numb, he picked up the phone, turning the rotary dial for Mack’s number. He brought the receiver to his ear, waiting for the dial tone to sound. There was nothing. He tried the number again before realizing, somewhat belatedly, that the line had been cut.

“Oh,” he said, dropping the phone in shock and stumbling from the office.

He picked his way through the glass toward the back door, numbly trying to understand and figure out how to deal with all of it. There was a payphone a few streets over. He needed to call Mack first, and then the police, and - _God_ , he sniffed, wiping the plaid of his sleeve against his nose. He just wanted to hear Jemma’s voice. _She’d know what to do._

A small drizzle began as he turned from the alley, darkening the pavement in tiny, intricate little dots. One and then another and then another. He should be focusing on which insurance agency to call, or how to begin cleaning up the mess - or even if he _should_ yet - what with the police and the evidence and the like, but it struck him, the way the tiny, little disconnected dots grew closer and closer with each spatter, connecting.

Jemma would know what to do. She probably had all sorts of checklists for eventualities if the lab had got broken into and robbed, if her things had been st-

His hand stilled against the red-painted door-frame as the anger and rage seeped in under the numbed calmness of shock.

She’d already had her work stolen - but the idiots at Roxxon were too stupid to understand the formulae without the proper mechanism to apply it, and - why was he thinking of this, _now_ , at all times?!

Droplets of water trickled down the glass squares of the telephone box, running into each other, streaming down and connecting - pooling and puddling like evidence at his feet.

“ _Roxxon_ ,” Fitz breathed, his palm smacking heavy against the receiver. He slammed it down, hard, jarring the muscles and the bones in his arm.

Jemma’s father worked for Roxxon. Ward had been interning for Roxxon when he’d tried to bribe him into giving over his designs.

And Harcourt Simmons obviously had no qualms about stealing intellectual property. Fitz punched at the red metal wall across from him, the pain like a shock treatment, spurring his brain to faster conclusions. His knuckles turning red and raw.

Another droplet cascaded into the stream.

“If Ward’s still with Roxxon...” He struck out at the phone booth again. “And why wouldn’t he be?!” He screeched suddenly, it all making sense in his mind - all the variables adding up to one single conclusion.

Ward had always wanted to be there, it was his dream. He’d been mentored by John Garrett ever since he was a teenager, came to the UK with him too - transferred schools when Garrett had been transferred to London to work for the British office for a time. Ward had gone on and on about how he’d needed to prove himself-

In a fit of temper, feeling nothing but frustration and hatred and a sheer, unabiding red, he dove for the hanging phone book, yanking hard at the cord  - throwing his weight backwards to tear it from the wall - spending his rage blindly against the inanimate, bound book until it gave - hurling it with a shout into a side street.

He huffed and puffed, gathering his breath and wiping the tears from his eyes as he calmed.

Fitz pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. He took a tremulous breath, and began to dial the Simmons’ number.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here are the links for the songs mentioned in this chapter - both by Wreckless Eric, because I like symmetry. ;-)
> 
> [ The Whole Wide World ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HkIwNYiv85w) and [ Tell Me I'm the Only One](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QWhPhXrfY-Q)
> 
> Those of you intrigued with my musical selection, you might be interested to note that adorable Wreckless Eric songs actually replaced the (hotter but) slightly less adorable Dictator's tunes, Stay with me, and Baby, Let's Twist!


	24. Basket Case

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jemma and Fitz come to a startling realization about the break in at the garage, which could unravel the bedrock of Jemma's life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! This fic isn't dead, I promise! As per usual, IRLs, folks. So many IRLs.
> 
> This chapter (and the next) were initially intended to be a single chapter, but due to the way things work when I wrote it (as happens) it worked out better than it was split in half.
> 
> Big thanks to @Notapepper for being a smashing beta as always! Also, suggestion: Listen to Ledges by Noah Gunderson while reading this. Just sayin...
> 
> Comments are always appreciated!!!

* * *

 

“Miss?” Trudi’s voice was at her elbow. “Someone on the line for you.”

The housekeeper’s tone held a note of disapproval and the quirk of her brows indicated worry. It wouldn’t do to take the call on the dining room phone, no matter how long the cord. There were listening ears, and the prickle of unease Jemma had felt earlier on the landing hadn’t dissipated, only lingered. The call had only served to ratchet up her anxiety.

Jemma set down her glass of wine and with a tightlipped smile, nodded to her conversational companion - a gentleman named Will Daniels her father had thrust at her, out of nowhere. He was from Roxxon’s aeronautics division, but even so, he was merely a pilot, and had pointedly stated that science was certainly not his interest. He was handsome enough in a generic way, she supposed, though his negativity did little to endear him. She had been hoping for some excuse to abandon the desert of their awkward back-and-forth, barren as it was for anything stimulating, but the sudden phone call sent alarm bells ringing in her mind. “If you’ll just excuse me for a moment,” She said, turning to Trudi. “I’ll take the call on the kitchen phone, if I won’t be in anyone’s way, please.”

Trudi nodded, leading the way. The buzz of conversation was soon replaced by the bustle and clatter of dishes and bodies far too concerned with plating and filling champagne flutes to bother with overhearing, and so, settling herself at the tiny desk in the corner, she picked up the receiver, and brought it to her ear.

“Jemma?” Fitz’s voice begged, shattering near the end.

“It’s me, Fitz,” she rushed out, “what’s wrong?”

Over the line, she heard Fitz suck in a long sniff, as his nose had been running.

“It’s -” He paused, as if trying to gather himself.

“- the garage. Everything. My stuff - all my blueprints and schematics! An’ he even took the bloody scribblers! Made it look like a break in, but he didn’ even _touch_ the cash box, just dumped everythin’ everywhere, thinkin’ he could _dupe_ us - an’ Mack - I haven’t even called Mack yet, but I just - I just _needed to_ um, to uh -” There was movement on the line, like a sleeve brushing close to the receiver, as he let out a woosh of breath. “I just really needed to hear your voice.”

“Oh, Fitz,” Jemma crooned, her eyes welling up to hear him so distressed. “It’s okay, we’ll get it sorted, I promise. We’ll do it together. Just start again - at the beginning - what happened?!”

Fitz sucked in a shaky breath, but his voice came out steadier. “I’ve got suspicions, an’ they’re not good, but I think I migh’ know what happened. I think the robbery was just a cover up -”

“Someone was after your designs?”

“- an’ I think I know who.”

Jemma’s eyebrows scrunched in confusion. “But who would do something like that?”

Fitz sputtered a dismayed laugh. “My dorm-mate from Uni.”

“The one who got you kicked out for squatting?” Jemma gasped, clutching at the phone cord and spinning toward the desk, her voice a harsh whisper.

“The very same.”

Fitz sucked in a shaky breath before spitting out a vicious, “Bloody _Ward_ ! He’s not even s’posed to _be_ here! Did he just come all the way from America to ruin my life for the second time?! Does he have some sort of secret Fitz-is-happy detector to let’m know just the _precise moment_ to strike -”

“-America?” Jemma started, legs collapsing into the desk chair under the sudden press of realization. “Ward? Grant Ward?”

_That promising young man, Ward or whatever – Garrett’s protégé – put forth an intriguing idea…_

_Genius mechanical engineer, quantum physicist, intelligence quotient off the charts.  You simply cannot understand what a percentage of the market we could seize in defense contracting with him as a part of the Roxxon family..._

“It was you all along,” Jemma despaired, mind flitting over images of the briefcase from earlier, the M logo seemed so familiar. It was the Mack’s Garage letterhead.

Her hand closed into a fist around the phone cord, the colour bleaching from her knuckles the tighter she squeezed, trying to will the crushing dread from her sternum, flattening the breath from her lungs.

“...Jemma?” Fitz trailed off, confused and disquieted.

She tilted her head back and sucked in a gasping breath as she blinked away sudden tears. “It’s some sort of misunderstanding. It _has_ to be.”

“I don’t understand - Jemma -”

“-You need to get here. _Fast_ . Take a cab. I’ll cover it - _just_ \- I think I can get back your designs.”

There was silence on the line for a long, heavy beat.

“...Tell me what’s happening, Jemma.”

His voice was icy cold, and it stabbed like a shard into her heart.

“I’m _sure_ it’s a mistake - he can’t know. He _can’t_ -”

“- _st spit it out_ -”

“He’s not exactly kind, but he’s not unethical! Ward must have -”

“- see what your father has to do with -”

“- had a tete-a-tete with Grant Ward earlier. He’s at the dinner party, but he’d never -”

“ - Bloody Christ, _Jemma_ ! Of course, Roxxon. _Bloody_ -”

“- Father must not have known - if we can just _prove_ -”

“ - not _likely_ t’believe the punk scum shaggin’ his only daughter -”

“- _He’d never steal, Fitz_!” Jemma shrieked, bashing her white-knuckled fist into her thigh with a fleshy smack.

“He _already has_ , Jemma! He stole from _you_ ! _His own daughter!_ Why’d you think he’d have qualms about stealin’ from some soddin’ homeless nobody crashin’ on couches in Brixton?!”

“ _BECAUSE IT’S JUST ME!_ ” Jemma sucked back her screech, a vocal, sudden halt, as if she hadn’t meant it to come out, as if had been lying in wait, ready to escape when she least expected it. And now it was out there, and it couldn’t be taken back. “I mean -”

“No, Jemma. _It’s no’ you, swee’heart_ ,.” Fitz’s accent was rough and choppy and choked with emotion. “It’s _him_ . It’s _all_ him. You fuckin’ deserve better. _Fuck_! I’m bloody damn tired of men like him takin’ and takin’ -”

“-We need to verify,” Jemma said quietly, her voice small and pleading. “It's just a hypothesis-”

Fitz slumped heavily against the phone booth, and sighed beleagueredly. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“I’m _so_ sorry, Fitz.” Jemma’s voice was tiny and thready, ripped at the seams. He’d never heard her sound so ruined. “I’m s _o sorry_ . I can’t - I don’t know how to - erm, if there’s _anything_ I can, _anything at all_ \- I know you probably… “

“Jemma - Jemma…”

“What I mean to say is, I just, I can’t explain how sorry I am, but,” she swallowed the boulder that had lodged in her throat, “I _promise_ I will do everything I can to fix this. Everything. I won’t let it stand -”

“-I know Jemma,” Fitz said with a finality that belied the flood of nothing words that were all set to tumble from her mouth. “We’ll fix it. Together.”

 

* * *

 

 

Jemma brushed under her eyes hastily as she hung the phone up, hoping to rub away the spidery mascara tears before they dropped. Before she could hide her face from view, Trudi, unobtrusive as always, was beside her, a tissue in her hand.

“Ta, Trudi.” Jemma hiccuped, feigning a smile. “I’d say histrionics, but then, I take it you heard everything?”

“Oh, miss,” Trudi sighed heavily, rubbing her hand vigorously against Jemma’s back. “I won’t say a word. And the catering staff’s all signed non-disclosures, anyway. Though the majority of them can’t understand more’n a few words of english anyhow - and if they do, well Eastern Bloc, you know. Soviets. Good with secrets.”

Jemma sputtered a chuckle. “I don’t know why that makes me laugh.”

Trudi wrinkled her nose and chucked Jemma under the chin. “Because it’s times like these you’ll either find yourself laughing or crying, miss.”

“Or in my case,” Jemma held up the tissue just long enough to hold it to her nose and sound off like a blow-horn, “both.”

“It’s never easy to see our parents as people. Ones with faults and problems and -”

“I knew he had faults! I know he’s not exactly a - a good father, but…” Jemma trailed off, turning into the older woman’s firm hug, and sobbed, “I just thought if he wasn’t a good father, he was at least a good man.”

“Oh miss.” Trudi’s voice was comforting and sad. “I’m so sorry, miss.”

 

 

* * *

 

Jemma milled about the party in half a daze, anaesthetized. There was something freeing in it - in the realization that Harcourt V. Simmons was not a good man to anyone, not simply his children. It was a weightless feeling - like a balloon with the line clipped, she felt like she was drifting smaller and smaller into the distance, nothing to ground her to the here and now.

Will spoke to her, and she listened, bobbing her head appropriately, or so she hoped, lost in some trance, the threads that had knotted her up inside uncoiling one by one, the things she thought she was unravelling with every head tilt, every pulse of her heart.

She stood with her back to Harcourt. She couldn’t let herself think of him as her father, not right now - couldn’t connect the concept of a father with the sudden realization of the man who’d done such things to an innocent person, all for the sake of money. It made him a foreign thing.

And maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much, to think of him as someone else entirely. As someone who didn’t help her set up the basement into her own little lab - different from the man who had rare glass sides shipped in from Asia for her sixth birthday. They couldn’t be one and the same. At least not right now, not when everything had suddenly become so clear and so complicated and so inextricably cutting. Every which way she turned, she was bound to bleed.

It wasn’t just her. Cold comfort in the face of Fitz’s anguished call. Her father was a bad man.

Was she still a bad daughter, though? If she had been _better_ -

“-I told him, I said, Garibaldi, you old so-and-so, high time you admitted it, I’ve bested you at your own game!” The room erupted into smug laughter.

Every pompous word hit against her temples like a clumsy smack. How could she have deluded herself? Every barked laugh, every self-aggrandizing statement just aggravated her more - not just because he was so ungainly and clownish, suddenly, but because she had excused it for so long. Jemma castigated her willful idiocy even as she felt her nerve endings numb down, the emotions inside her dulling to just one. The only one that would push her forward, give her purpose, help her fix this mess she’d made.

All she could feel was anger.

She’d let him just walk all over everyone. Her mother. Her brother. Her boyfriend. Everyone that mattered, she’d let him hurt, and why? Because she was scared? Scared of going without his money? His good opinion? His approval? His love?

...If he’d ever really loved her.

It dawned on her suddenly that, somewhere in her childhood, his regard for her had shifted, gradually. The way he treated her had changed. Pride had shifted to expectation. Happiness to haughtiness. Appreciation to aggression.

He’d turned on Lance when he’d begun to question Harcourt’s authority. Her mother had been refilling her valium prescription for as long as she could remember. Regardless of how genuinely he cared for his wife, he insisted and grated and bowled over her needs and cares for his own wants and desires.

He was a bully.

Something settled in her stomach, heavy, leaden, and unmoving. She couldn’t let him do what he did. Not to Fitz. She refused to see the light in his eyes dim under the bootheel of that dictator. Lance had been right all along.

This was her Cold War.


	25. Adore Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a plan to steal back Fitz's designs in place, Jemma's prepared to slip away from her father without a word, right as Vera and Harcourt's marital difficulties come to a head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So in breaking from tradition, I've titled this chapter not after a punk rock song from the 1980's, but from a recent punk rock song from a wicked band called Savages, who's show I recently saw with the amazing and JUST AS SUPER COOL IN PERSON AS ON THE INTERNET @not-the-stupid-cat-again. 
> 
> If you're looking for some killer (and yet life-affirming) punk rock, go check out their stuff. 
> 
> P.S. The lead singer totally grabbed my hand and sang a verse at my face. It was fucking awesome.

* * *

 

The plan was simple.

Fitz would arrive in the alley, grabbing a flat of champagne. Disguised as a porter, he’d come in through the kitchen. There, Trudi would whisk him aside to the broom closet and toss him the spare caterer’s outfit she’d taken back from Pavel, who’d been sent off early for snitching the silverware.

Jemma would be entertaining guests over drinks, feigning amusement as she ate shrimp cocktails and constantly scanned the far end of the room, closest to the kitchens - her horizon, really, for the signal. Like a flare in the dark, Trudi would light the candelabra on the dessert table, signalling two things:

  1. That Fitz had arrived, was prepared, and was hidden in the broom closet, just in case her father made an unlikely entrance into the kitchen
  2. That through the hub-bub of the dessert service, she could slip away, unseen, to get Fitz and lead him up through the back stair



If her absence was noted, it would be hardly fitting for her parents to go traipsing about, searching for her, and if they began to, Trudi would unobtrusively let them know that Jemma had felt ill suddenly, and that it was probably the shrimp cocktail.

Using a number of unsavoury items, they would then pick the lock on the study, locate the stolen documents, and then tidy and lock up again, heading carefully across the landing over to Jemma’s room, where they would secure all of their findings in a rucksack, toss it in one of the kitchen bins to the left of her window (conveniently beside the trellis garden), where one of the porters would take it out to the alley. Fitz would climb down the trellis,  and Jemma would make her excuses, heading to bed (but really out the trellis window) with the party guests none the wiser.

The next day, Jemma would call and inform her father that she no longer required his financial assistance, nor his dishonest thievery, and that she was breaking ties.

How that plan went awry as it did came down to one, single, tiny cufflink.

* * *

 

Vera’s soft, slim fingers glided down the wool of Harcourt’s suit-sleeve, tracing warm lines down the flesh of his hand as she twisted her palm against his.

“Darling,” She whispered, tilting her mouth up towards his ear as Garrett prattled on across from him, telling some garish war story, as usual, “Your cufflink,”

Harcourt cut his eyes to their clasped hands, turning his wrist upwards. “Where did it get to?” He murmured, whilst Vera picked up the thread of the conversation.

“From the way you tell it, Vietnam was equal parts gap year and Rumble: First Bloods!” Vera chuckled, smiling warmly at the man across from her.

Garrett adjusted the turtleneck under his blazer, gave her a condescending head tilt, and said, “I think you mean, Rambo: First Blood. And it was, pretty much. Hard for a woman to understand, of course, war being a particularly masculine field. Those were the best years of my life.”

Vera’s accommodating smile hardened into something brittle, like a slow, geological press. Her eyebrow rose, a tectonic plate pushing a mountain from flat ground. “Of course, of course. I couldn’t _possibly_ understand - not the My Lai massacre of nearly five hundred unarmed civilians, the sheer hatred spewed on the only servicemen of Company C who attempted to do anything, The spiraling drug addiction of conscripts, the staggering numbers of rapes committed against Vietnamese women and girls, not to mention the unreported rapes of American Nurses and enlisted women. I couldn’t possibly understand. I _am_ a woman after all, and one of the few Saigon Correspondents to have stayed and investigated the atrocities for a tour of nearly _two years_ , struggling to get their stories told, to speak of the shell-shock and trauma endured by men, women and children, Vietnamese and American alike, I couldn’t possibly understand. _Of course n_ -”

“- _Vera_!” Harcourt cut in sharply, tugging at her hand.

Vera sneered at the expression of shock on John Garrett’s face and tilted the champagne flute back, emptying the fuzzy liquid in a sparking river down her throat. It helped her bite back the question she dearly wanted to ask - _Which company did you say you served under again? Company C?_

“Get a hold of yourself, my dear,” Harcourt muttered before taking a step in front of her, blocking her from Garrett’s paralyzed stare.

“You’ll have to forgive her, as you can tell, my wife has a bleeding heart. She retired from journalism shortly after, for medical reasons, of course. Constitution's just not up to it, I’m afraid. With all the hustle and bustle of the party, I think she may have forgotten her medication,” He simpered, clapping Garrett on the back and walking him over a few paces to his cigar box. “Please, forgive me for her outburst. Have a cuban. I must go and take care of her.”

Garrett, colour coming back to his face as understanding dawned, nodded sympathetically. “Women, am I right?”

Harcourt chuckled, shaking his head in agreement and passing a hand-rolled cigar, “And that’s just my wife! You’ve met my daughter! Sometimes I question if it’s genetic.”

“A sucker for a difficult female, huh?”

Harcourt chuckled, holding out his hands in a gesture of admittance and surrender.

“I guess there’s something to be said for it - kinda like breaking a horse. There’s a kind of pride you get from it.” Garrett smiled and winked at his host, lighting the end of his cigar.

Harcourt chuckled under his breath and waved the other man off, moving back to reprimand his wife, where she stood apart from the crowd, her cheeks highly coloured.

“What were you thinking?” He whispered, leaning over her. ‘Do you realize just how important this party is to me? Why, it’s strategic - the board meeting is in just a few days, and I -”

“-I know, I know, darling,” Vera sighed, clutching at the sleeve of his shirt, “I am _so_ sorry. I shouldn’t have.”

“No, you shouldn’t. I know you’re brilliant and exciting and have lived whole lifetimes of adventures, but perhaps you can step out of the spotlight _for once_ , my love, and let your poor husband get some of the glow, hmm? I know my business is not _nearly_ as exciting as saving orphans in the Sudan or travelling with the Beatles -”

“The Rolling Stones, dearest,”

“See?! This is _exactly_ what I mean! It doesn’t have to be about _you_ all the time.” He harrumphed, tugging his sleeve away. “Just once, I’d like it if my family would support _me_ , as I support them.”

“I know, Darling. _I’m sorry_. I just - I don’t know what came over me…”

Harcourt shuffled closer, and whispered, “Have you taken your medication tonight?”

Vera turned away from him, clutching a hand on her hip. “You know I’m trying to not rely on them so much.”

Harcourt raised a discerning eyebrow. “Perhaps that’s the problem.” He hissed, his fingers worrying absently at the cufflink hole.

His wife subtly dabbed at the corners of her eyes, and muttered, “I _am_ trying, Harky.”

It made something soften inside him, made his voice tender. “I know my love. Here, why don’t you take a moment to see to the coffee service? I’ll get back to Garrett - perhaps he can assist me on the hunt for the cufflink. I was sure I had it when I dressed…”

“Yes, yes, sure.” She said, sadly, patting at his chest and motioning to Trudi, who was just ordering the servers to clear the rapidly emptying dessert trays.

“Garrett, old boy!” Harcourt said with a bellow, waving down the other man and his cohort, young Grant Ward. “Perhaps I could sneak you two away from the boredom for a bit of a hunt! What do you say, young man?” He clapped the tall, younger man squarely on the bicep.

* * *

 

They hadn’t spoken. In the glow of the desk-lamp, Jemma and Fitz worked in studious silence, removing the false bottom of desk drawers and pressing ears to the wall safe, listening for the tell-tale click of the combination. The date that Harcourt V. Simmons married Vera M. Eals. The sentimentality shocked Jemma, her widened eyes growing watery. Hastily she blinked it away, set her mouth, and reached in as Fitz pulled the door wide, grabbing the briefcase and the roll of papers.

The tension between them was a taut line, pulled tight like a trapeze. It felt just as dangerous, in the shadowed silence. One wrong move, one misstep, and the careful trust they’d built between them would topple, hitting the ground with a crippling finality.

“Oh! Ward, my son, of course! The study! It must have gotten knocked about in the shuffle! Good thinking.” Harcourt’s voice carried, the stairs thumping under the weight of the three men as they approached the first landing.

Jemma pushed the rucksack into Fitz’s arms, and motioned for the hallway. “ _Run_!” She mouthed, her eyes stricken. If he stayed to the shadows, and stayed silent, they might not see him as he made for her room.

His eyebrows perched high on his forehead as he looked at her, his ill-fitting suit jacket bunched at the shoulders as he halted, staring at her with some combination of fear and yearning. He shook his head decidedly. “Not without you,” He whispered lowly, taking her hand.

Panicked by the fast approach of the feet on the stairs, she shoved him forward. He stumbled, but he didn’t let go. “I can’t leave you here.” He shot a glance toward the open door, the slant of light beckoning. He turned towards her again, his eyes soft and pleading and desperate.

When he tugged her hand again, she followed.

They ran through the door, pressing close to the dark walls of the corridor, twisting into the alcoves as the footsteps stopped short on the landing.

“Why on earth is that open?” Harcourt asked, bewildered.

There was a sudden flurry of movement as the three men burst into the open study, and then a cacophony of curses.

Jemma pushed hastily at Fitz’s shoulder, her nails digging in. Fear and adrenaline coursed through her veins, making her forget herself. “Go!” She whispered, louder than she had intended, tripping fast behind him.

“What was that?” Grant asked, his quick, efficient footfalls easy to recognize on the hardwood.

Jemma’s heart flew into her throat, beating like it would burst out of her voice into scream after scream, feeling in a visceral memory how tightly he had clasped her dress around her neck, remembering how he had loomed - They were at her bedroom door, Fitz was tearing for the window, throwing the sash wide and tossing the rucksack down into the bin Trudi had left.

“ _Go_!” Jemma screamed, desperately throwing her weight against the door, knocking it towards the jamb, where she could lock it, and buy them some time to escape. “Follow the plan!”

“The plan’s gone t’ SHITE, Jemma!” Fitz shouted back, one leg over the sill, reaching out a desperate hand for her. “I’m _not_ leavin’ y’here at their mercy, not after wha’ you’ve done for me!”

Just before she could throw the lock, a sudden, forceful bang against the door sent her stumbling back. Tripping over her heels, she fell blindly on the bed, Grant Ward towering over her with menace.

Without knowing how, Fitz barrelled forward, his fist bunched knuckle-white and pulled back wide, soaring forward like a locomotive, striking solidly against Ward’s movie-star cheekbone. There was a sickening crunch as bone slide under skin, unexpectedly. The jolt set Fitz off balance, tripping over Jemma’s legs as she twisted, clutching the back of his jacket and rolling over him to shield any blows that would come.

“ _You wouldn’t dare_!” She screamed up at Ward’s sneering face, his cheek already swelling, burst capillaries spidering purple beneath his eye.

“What’s the meaning of this, Jemma Elizabeth?!” Her father began, stopping short at the scene. “What have you done?”

Fitz struggled to put himself in front her, the disapproval booming from her father’s barrel chest. “I _demand_ an answer, young lady!”

With a shove, She stood, her stance wide and strong, pressing her knuckles into the sequins at her thighs. They bit into the skin like dozens of papercuts, clearing the fuzz of fear and sharpening her focus, stilling the shaking of her limbs. “You really _are_ the King Idiot.”

“Darling?” Vera’s voice was faint and mildly distressed. “Was that you I heard just now? Harcourt?”

Garrett whistled low and leaned against the door jamb. “If I had a girl like that, I’d put her over my knee, sure as anything. Smack some sense into her - trying to get her Daddy’s attention by causing a ruckus like this? Harcourt, are you actually gonna let this stand? She steal cash from your safe? What were you planning, sweetie? To run off with this sewer rat and live on Daddy’s money until it ran out? Heck, you ain’t lying Harcourt, she sure ain’t as smart as she likes to think she is,”

Harcourt strode closer, his pace increasing as the furious red deepened on his cheeks. His hand flew out in front of him, striking open-palm against her cheek. The weight of it careening her back into Fitz’s arms.

He clutched her tightly, pulling her out of her father’s reach. “ _You abusive, thieving bastard_!” He shouted, brushing a soft hand against Jemma’s cheek. “You _fuckin’_ -”

Jemma pulled his hand away from her, but didn’t let go of it, squeezing fiercely, until he thought his bones would pop. Then she stepped away, stepped forward, once, twice, three times, until she was standing nose-to-nose with Harcourt V. Simmons, his angry, panting breaths steaming against her upturned face.

“You’ll never get it now. None of it. I’ve saved it from you. It’s the one good thing I’ve done, in all of this. The first time I’ve actually stood up to you. Poor, helpless Jemma Simmons, just _desperate_ for her father’s affection and attention and,” She scoffed demeaningly, “ _love_. Silly to think now, because it’s been a long time since any of those things were possibilities. But I hoped, and I tried _so hard_ , tried to fit myself into the little box you made for me, tried to be the things that would make me worthy of the love and the attention and the affection - I let you do _so many things to me_ , turn me into a mindless marionette puppet, too scared to stand on my own two feet. I let you _attack_ my brother for being a man with a moral compass and a mind of his own - I didn’t disagree. I let you bully and berate and reduce my mother, _right in front of me,_ for years! _Years!_ And I did _nothing_! I thought -”

Harcourt rubbed at his eyes and huffed, “This sort of acting out behaviour is so tiring, Jemma. Haven’t we had enough of it in recent months? All of this overreacting! It’s unladylike, to say the least -”

“Don’t _even_! You pugilistic bastard -”

Like the flip of a switch, Harcourt’s carefully drawn expression of exhausted parenthood flicked to fiery lines of rage, pulling the planes of his face into a beastly caricature. Waving a pointed finger in Fitz’s face. “HOW DARE YOU! HOW DARE YOU, YOU SMUG LITTLE STREET URCHIN! YOU COME INTO MY HOUSE, THIEVE MY THINGS, AND TRY TO STEAL MY DAUGHTER FROM ME!”

“ _She’s not a THING to be STOLEN_!” Fitz shouted, dropping Jemma’s hand to shove Harcourt’s from in front of his eyes. “She’s a _person_! A brilliant, beautiful, amazingly clever, blindingly kind, self-sacrificing person deserving of respect and love -”

“And you’re the bloody prick who pushed me away! You did this to yourself!” Jemma shrieked angrily.

“I thought, for so long, that it was just me - Just my inability to be what you wanted me to be, that made you so-so _unfeeling_ , so _mean_ , that I wasn’t good enough! That you just needed so bloody much from me that I could _never_ compare to the perfect child that you needed - that we just couldn’t give you the things you needed - Lance couldn’t, Mum can’t, and I just kept _trying_ , but you know what? Tonight I realized, when I found out you’d gotten Ward to steal Fitz’s designs, that it was _never_ us. You’re greedy! You’re like a _black hole_ , consuming anything and anyone that comes near you. I didn’t realize. I couldn’t stop you from doing it to Lance, or to Mum, but I can stop you from doing it to Fitz - _to the person I love_.”

“What are you saying Jemma?” Vera’s voice cut through the tension.

“I’m saying it’s over.” Her tone was stoney and final.

“Not quite yet,” Ward smiled villainously, and held up Jemma’s telephone. “Who do you think the police will believe?”

Harcourt’s mouth unfurled into a slow, triumphant sneer. “If you hand back what you stole, I won’t get the authorities involved. We wouldn’t want to hurt your mother with such a public spectacle, would we?”

Vera elbowed Garrett in the side, squeezing through the entrance to the room, toward the phone that Ward held aloft. “Or perhaps the Roxxon Board, _hmm_? Why you are falling below the projected earnings this quarter, and the promise of potential defence contract growth would allay their fears, wouldn’t it, Harky, dearest? And of course a scandal of these proportions, well, that would be debilitating, wouldn't it?”

Swiftly, Vera clutched at the coiled telephone cord, dragging a steak knife through the wires. She flung her wrap about her shoulders and did an about face. It fluttered about her as she strode closer, a familiar mantle settling along her frame as she stood between her husband and child. It was like she had shrugged on an old coat, the demeanour of capable surety and indomitable will pulling tight around her, conforming to the curves of her middle-aged body. She was calm and clear-eyed and unafraid.

“ _Vera_! Now is _not_ the time!” He insisted, drawing himself up to his full height, looming over her.

“Take a valium. They’re so helpful for these mood-swings of yours. I know from experience.” She bit.

“-You’re gonna let your wife talk to you like that?” Garrett asked, gesturing wildly at the rebellious trio.

“I’ve faced down Afghani Warlords, Viet Cong prison guards, Nicaraguan Cartel bosses, and the Tour manager for Guns and Roses. What on earth would possibly lead you to believe he ‘ _lets_ ’ me do anything?” She asked, twirling the steak-knife between her fingers with surprising dexterity.

“I may have been floating on a cloud of Valium, Xanax and white wine for the past twenty odd years, Harky my darling, lulled into the cushioned life of a kept woman, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t pay enough attention to deliver a thoroughly well researched expose to the papers tomorrow about the nefarious business dealings of one of the world’s most prominent corporate conglomerates that would have the courts of at least three nations fighting each other to convict first.”

Harcourt backed up imperceptibly, his bottom lip wrenching, “I don’t understand…” He trailed off.

Wryly, she asked, “What’s got you stumped?”

“I-I...I thought we were in _love_ , that you _cared for me_.”

“ _I do_. And I was. I probably _still_ am, and always will be. But I’m off the medication, Harky, and I’m clear-headed now, and you will never, _ever_ threaten my daughter again.”

Casually, Vera clasped the wedding band from her ring finger, and pulled. It slid off easily, as if it had always been ill-sized, wrong-fitting. “We’re getting a divorce.”

Reaching behind her, she motioned for Jemma and Fitz. “Go ahead.”

“IF YOU LEAVE THIS HOUSE WITH THAT BOY I SHALL CUT YOU OFF WITHOUT A PENNY TO YOUR NAME!” Harcourt snapped, spinning to face his daughter as she walked past him.

Jemma halted, buoyed by the sea-change tide that had swept over her mother.

“Take it.” She said, her gaze sliding from Harcourt’s purpling paroxysm to sweep over Fitz’s stubbled jaw, his tired but true, clear eyes, the tiny fervent smile pulling at the corner of his lips, as if he couldn’t quite believe the luck of it all. “I don’t need anything from you any more. It took a bit to make me realize it, but I know now that, actually, I’m all I ever really needed.”

Fitz stared at her like she was some impervious being, some Amazon warrior, like she was Hippolyta at the gate, victorious and sun-crowned - like some glorious thing, with reverence radiating from his eyes and the set of his mouth, flooding into her reserves and making her stronger.

He lifted their clasped hands and tenderly kissed her knuckles.

“I’ve got everything I could ever need, or ever want, right here. So take your bloody bank notes and belittle someone else. I’m done with you.”

* * *

 

“Miss! Miss!” Trudi’s voice was pleading and insistent as her sensible shoes crunched on the loose gravel of the alley. “ _Mi-iiiss!_ ”

Fingers clasped fiercely, the adrenaline still coursing through their systems, Fitz and Jemma turned in unison.

Trudi gulped in a wheezing breath, holding out a black plastic garbage bag. “Your young man’s designs, miss!”

Jemma sputtered out a surprised laugh, tears springing to her eyes. “Oh _Trudi!_ How can I ever thank you?”

The younger woman stepped forward, bypassing the maid’s outstretched arm, and fell tightly upon her shoulders, pulling her into a tight hug. Trudi dropped the bag, and hugged back.

“Oh miss! Just taking out the garbage is all! It’s my job,” She said with a wink. “Now get on with you two! I’ve got to help the missus toss out the Master’s clothes from the window!”


	26. Welcome to Paradise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fitz and Jemma make their escape, and end up at Lance's conveniently empty flat, where the tensions of the night give way to something far more intimate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is!!!!!
> 
> Long awaited, I know, but guys, this scene veered off course at least three times, and there was so much build up to this chapter that I absolutely needed to do it right! So I really hope you like it! Let me know what you think in the comments!!!
> 
> Thanks for sticking with the fic, you're all dolls!
> 
> OH P.S. THIS IS MASSIVELY NSFW. FER SERIOUS GUYS.

* * *

 

The thing about life-changing decisions is this: Even if you have seen them coming for a long time, they are still sudden, and tragic, and all-encompassing. They still change every part of your world, every participle in the sentence of your life. 

If you decide to hold on to something, steadfast like an anchor, a mooring shore, there’s fear to be had at the certitude of your strength, the trust in the grip of the thing to stay where you would have it. There’s fear that the place you’ve laid anchor isn’t the right place, isn’t the last place, or the only place, you ever want or need to be.

If you decide to let something go, there’s suddenly limitless possibility, and the true dread that every decision in this unknowable new future will trap you worse than you were before, that there is danger around every bend, and that nothing good ever comes without cost.

Once the decision is made, it can’t be taken back. No matter how happy you are to have finally done it, you can’t go back on it, not really. And that - the enormity of that action, it replays and replays on a loop, until you find your sea-legs.

Like most of us who flounder about looking for some sort of purchase in the new terrain of our stories, Jemma Simmons was very skillful at pretending. She had been doing it for the greater part of her life, and it seemed, walking towards the Tube, fingers interlaced with Fitz’s, smiling wildly with fever-bright eyes, that she might be able to pretend with him too - just this once, fool him a little into thinking nothing was wrong at all with the world. 

And there wasn’t. 

The field of possibilities that she knew had been swept clean, there was no right and no wrong, there was just the world, with pavement and gutters and the Tube, with flats and brick lanes, all cars and buses and bicycles, and roads to get here and there, and people, all sorts, sorts who made the right decisions, and the wrong decisions, and any decisions at all, because every single person was just mapping their existence, step-by-step, every turn a new possibility, a new life, a whole undiscovered universe, uncharted -

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Jemma said, gripping fiercely at the painted gate. The lit up Kensington Station signed burned bright and clear and pulsed behind her eyes no matter how tightly she closed them. 

“The way you ju-” Fitz pulled up short, his arm snapping back suddenly as he pivoted towards her, concern writ large on his features. “Jemma, sweetheart?”

She bent low over the bar, taking huge, gulping breaths, her rib cage shaking out like it was trying to dislodge something. “Just adrenaline,” she said.

Fitz reached across her to pull her hair out of her face and over her shoulder, stroking in broad circles along her shoulders, impressing reassurance into her skin. “It’s normal, y’know,” he murmured, dropping down to his knees on the pavement so he could look up at her face, cradled in her elbows, still methodically stroking her back. “You did something -  _ amazing _ . An’ gutsy. An’  _ incredibly _ terrifyin’, if I’m bein’ completely honest. You just made a huge decision, you  _ changed your life _ -”

“You’ve got to stop talking that way, Fitz. It’s making me want to vomit.”

He recoiled.

“Not the sentiment, it’s so sweet, it’s just the - whole…’changed your life, nothing’s the same, everything is uncertain possibilities and  _ oh god _ -” Her stomach roiled, heaving up into her throat. Jemma squeezed her eyes tight and forced the burning to recede.

Fitz couldn’t help the giggle that escaped. 

“What?” Jemma gasped, aghast, “Are you laughing at me?”

Fitz shook his head and covered his mouth, smothering his giggles. “Not at you, of course not!” He snickered. “Okay so a little at you.”

Shoving herself from the gate, she crossed her arms huffily and began to stride backwards towards the doors. “I’ll thank you to remember that this is absolutely the  _ scariest _ ,  _ biggest thing _ I’ve ever done in my life, and that includes accepting the award for -”

“ _ No _ , no, it’s just - fourth dimensionally speaking, nothin’s uncertain.” He pleaded, one arm out as he struggled to his feet, his combats skidding on the loose gravel. “An’ I was just a little taken aback that you, of all people, would slip into that whole notion, when _ I  _ know that  _ you _ know that -”

“- _ This is all meant to be _ .” Jemma breathed, the glittery hardness of hurt in her eyes softening to something starrier. 

Her mouth dropped into a gentle sigh, watching him stride towards her, a new sort of confidence fusing into his movements, into the way he swung his arms, the lope of his stride, like he believed it all, like he hadn’t any doubt.  Her heart fluttered at the tiny, sideways smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth. 

“...Fourth dimensionally speaking, of course,” she whispered.

He didn’t stop, or still. His smile stretched full and broad, joyful, and free with it, as an arm encircled her waist, pulling her taut against him, the sequins of her dress biting through the threadbare T-shirt under the open caterer’s button-up. Slowly, ever so, he raised a hand. “It’s inevitable. It’s already been decided,” he hummed, his eyes alight as he bent low, brushing the tip of his nose against her forehead. “You made it happen. And now…”

Jemma sighed breathily, her eyelashes falling to fan against her cheeks as she raised her face to his, unintentionally seeking the promise of lips and breath, dragging the bridge of her nose against the tip of his.

His thumb stroked along the curve of her jaw, across the shell of her ear. His finger-tips dug furrows in her hair. “It’s as impossible to stop as this,” he breathed, dipping with honeyed slowness toward her mouth.

His breath was warm curling against her own. His lips were so slow, and so soft, and so exquisitely deliberate, like they contained infinities in the press and mold of them. Cradling her face with his hands, his tongue stroked languidly against the tremble of her bottom lip - and she luxuriated in it, in the way his touch could calm the storm of her emotions, in the way she felt safe in his arms and against his mouth. She clutched hard at his back, her own thumb rubbing and petting against that spot just below his ear - her spot, the one she loved best, and he groaned into her mouth.

“-Jemma,” he gasped, breaking their kiss to look deep and pleadingly into her eyes, “I’m shit-scared too, darling, but I know it’s going to be okay, because -”

“It already has been. Is. Is going to be,” she finished. “It’s all the way it needs to be, right?”

“I’ve got you, you’ve got me, we’ve got our livelihood, and we’ve got Brixton.” He grinned, dipping to peck her quickly and adorably on the mouth, brows wide and open, “I’d say it’s perfect.”

“C’mon,” she answered with a blushing grin, finger-tips curling against the cut of his stubbled jaw, pulling him down for one last kiss, “Let’s go home.”

* * *

 

“Gimme those,” Fitz growled, palming the keys as he pushed Jemma back against the door, stealing kisses all the while. 

With a heaving push (aided by a well-timed kick from Jemma), they fell back into the flat, scrambling not to fall over the scattered detritus of shoes and trash bags. 

“O- _ ooh _ !” Jemma sounded, grabbing at Fitz’s sleeve with one hand, holding the open, brown-bag covered Baby Duck high as she tipped backwards, falling to the ground. 

“Jem-!” he cried, gravity pulling him down with her, holding his own bottle out of the way as they crashed loudly to the floor.

From the far wall came a muffled, sleepy, “ _ Oi _ !” 

“Sorry!” Fitz shouted at a Top Gun poster, waving his bottle at it as though Tom Cruise’s sunglassed visage were the disgruntled neighbour himself. 

Jemma was a-splutter with giggles. “ _ Shh _ ! You!”

“ _ Me _ ?!” he stage-whispered, spreading out flat on top of her, undulating his hips against the inviting V of her thighs. Jemma’s breath hitched sharply, her mouth falling open. “We’ll see about who’s noisy.”

With a wicked glint in her eye, she pushed up on her elbows, snaring his mouth in a heated kiss. “We certainly will.” She grabbed hold of him under his arms and then, in a flurry of movement, rolled them over so she was straddling his waist, the hem of her short sequined dress riding high on her thighs.

Fitz’s cock jumped in his pants, swelling hard as he moaned, watching her grind down, curling one finger under the hem and tugging, just a little, revealing another inch of thigh. “Oh fuck,” he breathed.

Jemma just grinned in answer, tipping the bottle of fizzy liquor against her pink, pursed mouth. Her eyes fluttered shut. 

A bit of champagne escaped her lips, running down the corner of her mouth, down her jaw - and it was all he could think about, all he could focus on, and somehow, without knowing quite how, his tongue had snaked out against her throat, a flat drag upwards, ending in a messy kiss on the underside of her jaw. His arms were tight around her, trapping his rapidly hardening cock between them as he tasted her. She was sweet and salty and alcoholic, and he was drunk, certainly, drunk on her, and them, and the night, and the future that spread out before them. 

He buried his hands in her hair and pulled her mouth down to his, inhaling her breath as he held her there, just for a moment, while her eyes flicked open to find his, pupils blown wide, expression liquid and soft, like melted gold. 

She kissed him then, pouring love into him like she was a wellspring. 

There was a joyousness to the mess of it. They spilled into the hall,  laughter bubbling on their tongues. Jemma twirled into the living room, hoisting the bottle high as Fitz, inevitably, followed after, like they had forged a chain between them, a thin gold chain that sparkled in the sharp glint of the streetlight that cut through the windows. 

He stared at her in wonder, watching as she moved to an imaginary tune, her eyelashes feather soft against her cheeks, her smile spread so generously across her face, her hair a tangle. She looked so carefree, and beautiful with it. His heart thump-thumped against his ribs, like a treasure chest filled to brimming, and dumped in a hole somewhere secret and safe and forever. 

_ God, _ he thought,  _ This woman. How I love her. _

And then he moved, tugged into her orbit. His hands found her hips, and his chest her back, and he pressed close to her like they could become one thing, one creature, one body, one soul. 

Jemma tilted her head back, letting it fall against his shoulder, opening herself up to him. He suckled at the junction of her throat and jaw, earning tiny, keening whimpers for his efforts. She dropped her bottle on the table, and reached behind her, trying to undo her neck clasp.

“Let me, Love,” Fitz said into the heat of her skin, caressing an ardent, open-mouth kiss on the the finial of her spine. Under his hands, she shivered with feeling, the dress slipping off her figure. 

He wound her up in his arms, holding fast, inhaling the scent of her hair and gently kissing her cheek as she sighed, releasing some of her weight into the solidness of his body, humming, pleased. They swayed like that, sharing heat and rhythm, letting their heartbeats sync for a long moment.

Then, Jemma twisted in his arms, tilting her chin up, dark eyes seeking his as she bit her bottom lip. Her arms swept up his back and up to his shoulders, pulling at the disheveled uniform jacket and shirt. 

“Off,” she decreed, the warmth in her gaze growing hot, her fingers digging into the fabric, tugging it down his arms. 

“Yeah, okay,” he breathed, flapping his arm unselfconsciously to loosen the constrictive clothing, letting it flop to the floor while he strode forward again, his free hand cupping her jaw to tilt her face imperceptibly to the side, kissing her soundly. 

Their knees knocked against each other, making Jemma snicker into Fitz’s mouth, unapologetically happy. Teasing her cold hands up against his back, she burst into giggles as he yelped, dancing back.

“Jesus woman! You’ve got icicles, not fingers!” He reached behind him, pulling his T-shirt off in a smooth movement before reaching out for her hands and pulling them onto his chest with a grimace. 

“But they’re so cold!” Jemma cried, trying to pull them away. He spread his fingers between hers and pressed hard, trapping them where they were. 

“You’re sayin’ it like I don’ know,” he snorted, leaning down quickly to kiss the tip of her nose. “But y’know what they say - ‘cold hands, warm heart’.” His eyes took on that soft, shimmery quality - that tender, devoted openness that made him look so young, and so sure. 

It was as though someone had pulled back the shutters of his heart, put glass against the valves and the blood and the way the thing pumped - all the secret workings, bared to her. Jemma’s breath caught in her throat, her eyes hazy and wet. 

Fitz bent suddenly, placing ten tiny kisses on the tips of her ten fingers, and then looked up to see her trembling lower lip, her face, so overcome with tender emotion. Jemma stepped forward, dragging their conjoined hands down, trapping them in between the press of skin.

“I love you so much,” she said with a quiet fierceness.

Her lips were reverent and soft; so chaste and giving for a few tiny seconds. Then her tongue, her idolatrous tongue, lapped at the curve of his lip, and he opened to her, clasped hands forgotten as things began to burn. He dragged his fingers against the curve of her spine, curling against the nape of her neck, hot and smoldering. They kissed like it was an offering sent up to the heavens.

They fell back with a squeak into the old couch, piled with discarded blankets and cushions, knocking aside a few empty beer cans.

Fitz struggled to sit, pulling Jemma possessively into his lap and rocking his hips upward against her knickers, feeling the heat of her even through the layers of pants and trousers. Surging forward, the zing of her skin against his sent tingles down his nerve endings, sensitizing every minute brush of hair and trace of lip as she kissed at his temple and his cheek, playfully nipping at the hair on his chin, before slotting her mouth on his in a fierce, claiming kiss. 

He palmed her waist and pulled her eagerly down against his tented crotch. A shock of sensation shot through him, making him gasp into her mouth.

Jemma grinned devilishly, and swirled her hips against his hardness, grinding hotly and heavily, short-circuiting the connection between his brain and his mouth. “Shite, shite, _ fuck _ ,” he begged, hands firm against the flare of her hips, holding her still, “Don’t make me cum in my pants.”

Jemma giggled, and it was perfect. 

“Why not?” She pouted, grinding her pelvis low in a deep, sinuous motion that left him breathless. “What will you do to make me stop?”  She bit her lip playfully, and arched an arch eyebrow.

Fitz looked up at her, his stubbled cheeks pulling into a wide, wolfish, answering grin. With a flash of movement he reached across, finger-tips dimpling the skin of her arse as he grabbed her and hoisted (amid her delighted shrieks), depositing her with a bounce on her back, her arms thrown all akimbo against the couch cushions. 

“I’ll just have to make you cum in your pants then,” he said, with a puckish curl of his lips.

Jemma leaned up on her elbows. “You wouldn’t!”

“What’s good for the goose…” he began, dragging his hand down the valley of her breasts until it reached the elastic waist of her knickers, “Is good for the gander.” He hooked a solitary finger inside the band and pulled, releasing it with a quick snap - Jemma sucked in a sharp, pinched breath, a flush suffusing her cheeks and chest.

“You wouldn’t,” she repeated, voice low and lush and begging.

“Watch me,” he said, petting along the moist gusset of her knickers.

And so she did.

His thumb stroked against the fabric at her folds, the teasing grin he wore transmuting in the half-light, watching the way Jemma’s lips grew slack and open with each pass, how the tight bow of her eyebrows eased, how the tense pull of her shoulders shook out into a long, languorous line. She tilted her eyes upwards, forcing his breath to catch in his throat with what he saw there. 

He’d thought he known all of her secret looks. It was like she’d taken him far away, to some quiet clearing, away from the bravado and pretense she held about her like armor, and pointed his gaze to the night sky, glimmering with pin-pricked light. She looked at him like he was the universe made whole, made tangible. 

Fitz cleared his suddenly thick throat, and shuffled forward to press a devoted kiss against the joint of her knee, stroking his nervous fingertips against the swell of her thigh. His other hand moved to the side, pushing against the leg of her knickers, and dipping inside.

Jemma gasped sharply. The graze of his fingers lit something inside her. Like lightening against a dry field, it snapped and seared through the line of her spine, arching her back, as Fitz kissed kerosene against her inner thigh. His smouldering mouth interspersed tender kisses with tiny nips, raising keens and muttered pleas from her mouth as her hand curled possessively over his ear, nails scratching through the strip of curls that barely caressed the crease of her thigh. He growled at the feel of her, and nipped a little harder, right at that soft space above her centre, making her mewl and squirm as he rubbed his stubbled cheek against the spot.

All the while, his hand, so skillful with microchips and miniaturized parts and drumsticks, alternated maddeningly with flat passes against her lips and deep, curling strokes inside, collecting wetness as his fingertip softly circled around her clit - so close, but not quite touching, just burning her up like a brushfire. 

Her eyes fell closed, head pressed back against the mess of cushions, her hand clutching tightly at his curls, trying to pull him desperately closer to her dripping pussy. 

“ _ Fitz _ ,” she moaned needfully.

He twisted his wrist, two fingers plunging deep inside her, his thumb swiping across the tiny bundle of nerves. With a cry, Jemma lifted her hips, spearing herself further on the hilt of his fingers. Her breath shuddered out with each outward drag, her muscles beginning to quiver. 

“Shit, Jem,” he breathed, air thick in his throat as he watched the play of shadows against her shuddering breasts, the sinuous stretch and pull of her tensing muscles, the way she moved beneath him - moved for him, like she was a beat, the skin of a drum rippling with sound around each stroke and strum of his fingers. “You’re so fucking gorgeous.” He gulped deeply, memorizing the picture, and then she groaned again. 

“ _ Fiiiiiitz _ ,” she begged, pulling him tightly, his nose brushing against her moist heat, as he gave in, kissing her lips in a messy, wet kiss. “ _ OOooh _ !” she cried, her back rising from the cushions to press herself against the feel of his tongue at her centre. 

He slipped the hand that had been playing along her side down to the small of her back, leveraging her higher as he slipped his tongue alongside his pistoning fingers, and then lapped upward, dragging the flat of it against the underside of the swollen nub.

Like a string pulled dangerously taut, he could feel her begin to quiver tightly around him, her nails scoring through the shorn hair at the side of his head, and quickly, sensing the pulse of the rhythm, flicked his tongue quickly against her clit once, twice, three times, before taking it in his mouth, and sucking hard.

Jemma’s panting, quick gasps of “fuck, fuck, fuck, oh fuck!” lost all semblance of wordform as her hips shook, and her inner walls fluttered hard against his driving fingers. She keened loudly, biting the back of her hand as she lost control, spasming in careless shakes as she fell, boneless, against the couch. Fitz’s hand still stroked in small, trapped movements along the curve of her ass, his tongue lapping languidly in long strokes against the saltwater wetness that seeped from her lips, tasting her like she was champagne.

Dragging in a deep, shattered breath, Jemma loosened her grip on his hair, petting her palm in drunken, lazy strokes against Fitz’s neck, trying to coordinate her mouth and her vocal chords to beckon him up to her, the sheen of sweat against her chest and stomach growing cold and goose-pimply in the afterglow.

He knew what she meant in her desirous half-murmur, and unhooked her knee from over his shoulder, shifting a little forward. She was pooled against the couch like liquid, her hair coiled about her flushed cheeks. He sucked in a struck breath, somewhere between intense pride and wonderment that he had done that, that the torpor in her limbs, the loose ease that sprawled her, half-lidded and grinning, curling her fingers into the waistband of his pants, her nails scritching along the skin of his bum, that all of that was because of him. 

“Leo Fitz. Blessed once more by St. General Electric, the most pervy of appliances,” he declared, grinning lopsided and dopey as he attempted to stretch up to cover Jemma.

Unfortunately, his foot caught in a loose Manchester Jersey, which was in turn caught between a discarded shoe and a precariously placed couch cushion, sending his centre of gravity flying distinctly south. 

Before he knew what he was doing, his hand had struck out, grasping wildly at the nearest stable thing (which happened to be Jemma’s left breast, dear Lord in heaven!), his heel hit the coffee table, his head hit the carpet with a thunk, and Jemma’s elbow hit squarely on his chest, knocking the wind out of him. 

“Spoke too soon,” he wheezed.

Jemma’s wide, bewildered eyes squeezed shut, and her bowed ‘o’ of a mouth spluttered with a raucous cackle.

“It’s not that funny!” He gasped, sucking in breath. “I was very almost a Sex God, blessed by the sexiest of saints!”

Jemma was a mess of giggles, pressing her snorting face into Fitz’s shoulder, shaking with hilarity. “I mean -” She snickered, trying to school her face into seriousness, and failing, “I’d definitely consider myself -” 

She collapsed into soundless laughter. Her hair tickled his nose as she slapped at his shoulder, squeezing out tears as she struggled to catch her breath and finish her thought, “-blessed, because that was incredible, but you - you’re right,” she said, tossing her hair over her forehead as she repositioned herself, resting her chin on her hand. She looked into his eyes with a fond, doting grin, and finished, “You - You’re cursed.”

“Told you,” he grunted, leaning forward to land a peck playfully on her nose. “Cursed. And always right.”

Jemma rolled her eyes and surged forward, sliding her lips over his in a smiling kiss. Hands in her hair and around her waist, he twisted them both to the side, trapping her leg between his, so she couldn’t wriggle away when he began tickling up her spine. Jemma pawed at his chest, eyes bright and fond, trying to push at him away. 

Shrieking delightedly, she threw her head back, her arching back thrusting her breasts - those beautiful, pale breasts, towards him. Seizing the opportunity Fitz slid closer, peppering soft, tantalizing kisses along the column of her throat. He couldn’t help it. The lower he travelled, the more heated his kisses, became, open mouthed, tongue stroking against freckles, teeth scraping along the pliant curve. Oh God, he had imagined this, had wanted this, been desperate for this, to hold her in his arms, to be granted access to her flesh and her heart and her head, like a lone wanderer in a secret garden.

Fitz felt the sharp intake of breath against his shoulder as he tugged at Jemma’s back, pulling her hard against his thigh. Her hips rocked, her wet heat dragged along him, enough to make him groan with need. 

She smelled lush and warm, fragrant vanilla and coconut and salt, as he inhaled against the underside of her breast, trailing his hands tenderly and purposefully against the shelf of her ribs. His thumbs came soft under her arms, stroking tiny circles against the sides of her breasts. He pressed upwards, gently, watching as her left nipple peaked into the empty air, silhouetted against a cut of faint neon light from the window.

Jemma whimpered, one hand working the clasp of his belt, the other grasping the curve of his arse through his jeans, her expression dangerously wanton. On second glance, there was something vital there - something he couldn’t quite understand, in the mix of unshuttered timidness and exquisite devotion. As if this were a first time, and he knew it couldn’t be. Fitz had never been a first for anyone, let alone Jemma Simmons, fearless and passionate and essential, who attacked life like she has a vendetta to win. He stilled there, hovering, the shallow pants from his mouth caressing her nipple, hardening it into a pebble, and making Jemma keen quietly, in her throat.

“Okay?” he asked, scanning her face, seeing the tense line of her throat, the twitching muscle at her mouth, the glassy quality of her eyes. Seeing her.

Jemma nodded quickly and decisively, pressing her lips together, afraid she might cry from the beauty of it. She’d cracked chests before, for her doctorate. She’d taken out organs and held a heart up to halogen lights, diagramed veining and cut slides, explored the cavern of the chest and counted and measured the the rib bones. She imagined that this, this must be what it felt like to be on the receiving end. Metaphorically, at least. 

Love felt like a bone-saw, like ungentle fingers that pried the cage of your ribs apart, that squeezed your heart tighter and harder as they grafted other veins and limbs and a whole other person onto it.

It was an ungentle thing, love. It walloped her in the chest, all sharp and hot and stinging, handled her roughly and left her disheveled and tousled and unkempt, and if being in the thing hurt with such a stunning grace, then being out of the thing would, logically, hurt even more. Ripping out half-healed stitches. Bride of Frankenstein in pieces, bloodying the floor. 

She had never loved anyone, or anything like this. She tried to make her mouth say, “Okay.” Tried to say it back, but the honesty of her emotions overwhelmed her, and instead, she heard her voice, a tiny churchmouse of a thing, squeak, “ _ -scared. _ ”

“I’ll stop,” he said, pulling back hastily from her, the heavy, hot press of his cock leaving her thigh in a rush. The fast dissipating heat spun her mind further, extrapolating the way his smell would dissipate from her clothes, the imprint of his body from her blankets, the way nature abhors a vacuum and how the space he’d leave would fill, of course, with all the other things that were not him.

“No!” she cried, scrambling, her nails digging into the wiry muscles at his shoulders. “No!” she said again, a tiny tear eeking out the corner of her eye. “Ugh,” she sounded, turning her face away.

He settled back against her, reaching out to wipe at her cheek. “Why’re you cryin’, Love?”

“That’s just it,” she breathed, turning into him, wedging her limbs under and around his own, insinuating herself into his arms until there was no air between them, just the seams of skin against skin, heart against heart.

Her breath tickled at his throat as she tilted up, looking into his worried eyes. “I love you. I love you so much, and it scares me to think about. What if something happens? What if something takes you away from me? Or you decide you’re better off, and you leave? I don’t know if I could bear it. I’ve never been in love before. I never anticipated -”

“-Never?”

“No. Not at all. You’re the first. First for a lot of things, for me,” she said.

“You’re my first too,” he murmured, pressing his lips against a freckle at her cheekbone, so softly, so meaningfully. 

“Aren’t you scared?”

“All the time,” he laughed lightly, carding his fingers into her hair as he kissed her.

“What if something tears us apart?”

Fitz looked deep into her eyes, unbearable fondness and implacable courage mingling, funnelling into her own fear and turning it into something buoyant, something like an air balloon.

“I try to believe in hope,” he said simply. “I try to believe that -”

“-we won’t let it,” she finished, nodding, pressing her eyes shut and her forehead against his. She loved this feeling. Could wrap it around her and wear it like a cloak. 

His finger and thumb found her chin, and tilted her face, tenderly, upwards. Her hands harboured at his neck and at the side of his jaw, her lips reaching to run aground on his. He crashed into her, the press of his mouth and his body on her own like a wave breaking, pulling her back into the undertow of the moment, filling her with heat and longing.

With a push, she situated him back where he had been, before her attack of nerves nearly upset the moment. Fitz looked up at her and blinked, before realization dawned. He swiped a thumb against her nipple and watched it firm up in seconds. Once more he turned to look in her eyes, a wolfish grin splitting his earnestness with something far more naughty.

“I guess I wasn’t the only one looking forward to this,” he teased. 

His eyes never left her face as he dragged his tongue in a lazy motion up the underside of her breast, swirling wet, messy kisses around her areola as she fidgeted beneath his steady, calculated movements, intent on driving her wild as he played. 

He nipped boldly, just at the edge of her nipple, and she cried out. The sound alone had him involuntarily rutting into the stretch of her thigh. 

Abandoning the game, and what little control he had, he lapped at the hard pebble, closing his mouth around it. He tugged a bit with his teeth, and Jemma gasped. He pinched her other in his left hand, and rolled it between forefinger and thumb, sending her wriggling beneath him, a constant, heady whine streaming from her mouth. “Oh  _ God _ , oh  _ Fitz _ , oh _ fuck _ .”

She pushed blindly at his jeans, tugging his pants rather forcefully down to tangle at his thighs, before her palm gripped and scraped along his upper thigh, nails scoring delicately along the skin of his bum, shooting fireworks straight to his cock. 

“Shit,  _ Jem _ ,” He cursed, voice strangled, into the hot flesh of her breast.

Fitz abandoned her wet nipple. It fell from his mouth with a slight pop as he pushed up on his arms, capturing her lips in a searing kiss. His tongue stroked deeply along her own. When they broke, he stayed there, nose against her cheek, sharing breathe for a taut moment, tension coiling with the millimeter-by-millimeter slowness of his mouth pressing back to hers, the heel of his hand stroking down her stomach and into her panties once more. 

His tongue deftly swirled around hers and dived back in, just as two of his fingers mimicked the movement below.

“ _ OOoooh _ !” Jemma cried into his mouth, sharp nails digging rather violently into the swell of his bum, leaving little claiming half-moon marks there. His fingers worked in and out of her harder, pressing and stroking against that soft, glorious spot inside, arching her hips and making her thighs tremble as his naked cock ground wetly against her. 

Fitz was going to explode. He was going to cum. He’d be surprised if he didn’t shoot a hole through the wall with the sheer projectile force that was built up - and then she grabbed his arse again, squeezing a palmful and pressing those sharp nails right into the curve and oh no  _ oh fuu- _

_ “Winston Churchill in a silky nightie doing burlesque! Uncle george’s cigar cough! Fuck, fuck _ !” He whimpered, reaching down to squeeze hard at the base of his cock to stop from coming, his face red from exertion and embarrassment. 

“Shit.” He groaned, rolling over and squeezing his eyes shut. “I was tryin’ to be all sexy-like,” he said, belt clanging against the floor, underpants stretched half-way down his thighs.

Jemma patted at his sweaty chest and nodded, panting as she rubbed her thighs together. “Right,  _ yes _ . It was  _ working _ .”

“Right up until I blurted out my patented don’t-cum-early cure,” He groaned, feeling sufficiently deflated enough to remove his hand.

Jemma slapped a hand over her mouth,smothering the bark of laughter that bounded from her throat. It garbled into a spluttery exhale as she shook her head and grabbed his hand and squeezed, silent giggles jiggling her breasts appealingly. Fitz flopped over on his side to watch their mesmerizing movement, a blush spreading across his chest to remember, suddenly, how it felt to have, only moments before, those breasts filling his hands and those nipples on his tongue. Quickly, and unobtrusively, he squeezed the base of his cock again.

“Winston Churchill in a silky nightie doing burlesque!” She squealed, tossing her head from side to side to clear away the image. Abruptly, she stopped mid-movement. “Did you mean like a silky teddy, or one of those long granny things with the tie at the throat?” She asked, her eyebrows doing something strange as her curious mouth struggled to not burst into more giggles.

“ _ Obviously _ a teddy. It’s far nastier, wha’ with the hairiness an’ all that.” Fitz muttered darkly, trying to force away the grin that fought to the surface. Watching her laugh naked at his don’t-cum-cure was not how this was supposed to go. He was supposed to impress upon her the fact that he was a  _ punk rock sex god  _ of the  _ highest _ order - Not some nerd who’d barely been with anyone and couldn’t help himself from going off when a pretty girl squeezed his bum. 

He was supposed to be cool. He was a drummer, dammit.

“It’s not as though he can help it!” Jemma joked, “He just wants to feel  _ pretty _ !” 

Finally Fitz cracked. Peels of laughter tore through his chest as Jemma clamoured closer. He rolled onto her shoulder and then snuggled down onto his favourite head-rest, pillowed between her breasts, pressing loving kisses into the swell of them. Her nails drew fuses up the hemispheres of his back, and his breath caught, trembling and shallow in his throat. 

Her eyes were dark, and she bit her lip. 

He hooked his thumb into the fabric of her knickers, and tugged. With a grin, he moved to his knees, dragging them up the curve of her thighs and flinging them off her calves (landing somewhere across the room) as she broke into pleased laughter one more time. 

He smothered her mouth with his, peppering tiny, fond pecks between the words. “Why’re you so giggly, Simmons?  _ Hmm _ ? Something funny about this?” He tickled up her sides, swiping across her nipples with a dramatically raised eyebrow and an impish glint to his eye.

Jemma’s mouth dropped open, a combination of desire and shock. She refrained from answering, dragging him by the neck down to meet her, instead. She kissed him, hungry and hot and full of a plain and beautiful pleasure, that when she broke away, and murmured, “Not funny, exactly, I’m just happy,” he wasn’t surprised. Pride swelled within him just the same.

As well as other things. 

He kicked off his jeans and dug through the pockets, growing increasingly more frantic.

“What?” Jemma asked, concerned by his sudden abandonment.

“Condom,” He groaned, tossing his pants aside and clutching his hair. “I wasn’t expectin’ this,” His voice was so despairing.

He buried his head in his arms, looking down at the jutting, red, swollen penis between his legs. “I’m sorry again, old friend. “ He muttered to it. There was some rustling, the sound of a drawer being open and shut, and then the feeling of something small and flat bouncing off his shoulder.

“Hey-” He began, and then saw the silvery packet on the floor.

“I excel at preparation,” Jemma explained simply, wrapping her hand around his calf with a wink. 

Fitz opened his mouth in mock-indignation, watching the way her grin split her face as laughter echoed. “Doctor Doctor Jemma  _ Simmons _ ! You outrageous slut!”

Jemma cackled loudly and pulled at him, toppling him bodily on top of her as she did so. “Me and Winston Churchill, both,” She deadpanned, slotting her mouth over his, tongue demanding and sexy and heady in his mouth. God she was intoxicating.

He slipped the condom on, the constriction both helping and hindering the intensity he felt, pulsing through him with every heartbeat.

There she was, he thought, her body laid out beneath him like an offering. She ran her fingers up his chest and along his neck, her eyes never leaving his, as she delicately brushed her thumb against his lips.

“Okay?” He asked, settling into the cradle of her thighs, her wet, hot centre searing against the underside of his cock. 

Her thumb swiped softly against his cheekbone, fingers curving around his ear. He leaned into her touch like a cat, seeking it, kissing the edge of her palm.

“Perfect. Better than,” she whispered, her eyes reverent and full of love.

He felt her hands intertwine on the back of his neck, and he swept down, spine curving as his lips carefully brushed against hers. She sighed into him, rolling her hips up and forward. With a sharp intake of breath, he realized he’d nudged, just barely, inside of her. He rocked backwards to readjust, and she moaned at the feeling. 

Experimentally, he did it again, once, twice, three times, eliciting a louder, more gutteral, begging response each time. 

“Ooooh! Fitz!  _ Yesssss… _ ” She trailed off into into a sharp inhale as he slid forward, finally, in one smooth movement filling her to the hilt. Her thighs squeezed tight like a vice at his sides, and he stroked a hand along one, murmuring hushed words of comfort and nothingness as she adjusted to the feeling of him inside her.

His arm began to quiver from the strain of holding still, so he dropped low and kissed her deeply, trying to press the love and admiration he felt for her against her lips, to fill her mouth with it, stroke it along her tongue. They began to move slowly, in tiny, incremental thrusts.

A gasp.

A keen.

A heady moan, filling the air.

The slick slide of him within her was maddening. Their kisses became uncoordinated the faster their bodies moved, the rhythm of their joining playing out like a shy beat, gaining confidence in the movement, the slap of skin punctuated by a hissed name, the staccato inflection of grunts, the tympani of breath.

Jemma’s hands roamed, memorizing the raised mole on his shoulder, the way his back muscles dipped into the hard, articulated ridge of his spine, down to the rise and swell of his bum as he worked above her, the muscles there bunching and releasing with the effort of his thrusts.

She rubbed her knee along his ribs, her breathing growing thin and tremulous as her toes petted along the soft line of his pelvis, desperate to feel all of him along her as much as she could, to drive out the everything between them, even air. The pressure was building and building at her core, sending her limbs to tingle, her passage quivering around him, like a star threatening to collapse.

“ _ Fitz _ !” She cried, breathy and full of warning, her back arching to grind her breasts against his hard, sweat-slick chest.

She leaned up, placing messy, desperate, sucking kisses along the line of his collarbone, taking his nipple into her mouth and giving it a flick with her tongue. “ _ Jesus _ , Jemma,” He whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut as he redoubled his efforts, moving harder and faster in an uncoordinated haze.

He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, determined to give her what she needed, to bring her to the edge and let her spin out into the universe, but he just couldn’t get the leverage he wanted, his knee kept slipping on the rug.

Tugging at her arched back, pressing her flush against him as he thrust in, Fitz held tight and rolled them. Suddenly straddling him, every inch of him inside her feeling fuller and and thicker and somehow more, Jemma sobbed out, “Oh god, I’m so close!”

Fitz nodded rapidly, watching her breasts bounce as she rolled her hips in tight, forceful circles on his cock, and planted his feet, widening his stance. “I know, sweetheart, I know, I’ll get you there,” he panted.

“I want you there too,” She moaned, throwing her head back as his fingertips dug into her bum, kneading the flesh and pulling her onto him as he steadied his thrusts from this new angle.

“Oh!” She cried, nails drawing a red line across his nipple, sending sparks straight to his cock, which twitched inside her, “ _ OOoh _ !”

“Oh fuck, oh shite, Jem, I’m  _ gonna _ -” He whined, squeezing his eyes shut and biting his lip.

He pistoned into her, the head of his cock dragging inside her against that perfect place, making her nerves burst like poprocks and coke. “ _ There _ , god, there!”

He brought a hand up to her opening, swiftly located that little bundle of nerves, and rubbed at it with purpose. Suddenly, nerve by nerve, her body seemed to implode on itself, shattering out in a burst, going supernova, as she keened high and long and loud. Her body quivered and stretched taut as she shivered through her climax. A second later, Fitz gave a guttural sob, his arms around her waist tugging her downward, spearing her on his length as he slammed home once more. Muscles shaking, another tiny, spent orgasm shuddered through her, fluttering around his cock as he buried his face in her chest, sucking in gasping breaths. 

Jemma petted his sweaty curls and tried to roll off him, in order to avoid asphyxiating him with her cleavage. Fitz whine was muffled and adorable as he tiredly wound his arms around her, weighty from exhaustion and fully spent. Jemma gave in with a doting smile, turning a bit in his arms so she could kiss his moist temple and curl around him, soaking up his heat.

“ _ Mmmm, s’good _ .” He mumbled, words slack and fumbled. He nestled further into her breasts, kissing the tops of them with soft, passionate, open mouthed kisses, and then reaching to give her bum a faint squeeze as his limbs gave into torpor.

Jemma nodded, humming. “But only for a little bit.”

“Why?” He mumbled against her collarbone, slightly bereft in anticipation.

“Maintenance pee.”

He pulled back, eyes bleary and bewildered.

“To avoid a UTI, and to make sure we can do a lot more of this,” She gestured between them, “In the future.”

“Bodies are weird,” Fitz mumbled, his eyes falling closed despite himself.

“But fascinating!” Jemma began, cheeks suffused with color, eyes bright with the excitement of a lecture. “Why the capacity the female body has to -”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive apologies if the UK does not have the super cheep sparkling wine known colloquially in Alberta as Baby Duck (I think the actual brand is 'Cold Duck'??) But its kind of a cheap-ass classic here, and it's a term I've grown up with, you kinda just apply it to any super cheap sparkling wine you can find!

**Author's Note:**

> All graphics are done by the incredible memorizingthedigitsofpi, who's great fics you should check out as well!
> 
> I plan on posting about once a week!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Whole Dom Time](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4703114) by [notapepper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notapepper/pseuds/notapepper)




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